


Moonshine

by Victopteryx



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Bootlegging, Capitalism, Christianity, Hashirama/Mito but Not Really, Historical, Horses, Humor, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Moonshine, Organized Crime, Original Character(s), Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:55:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 71,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27003100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Victopteryx/pseuds/Victopteryx
Summary: Hashirama Senju had it all - a rich father, a supportive brother, and a plan to build a brewery in the ass-end of the American midwest.Aside from the clan of lunatics and bootleggers living in the hills, he had it all figured out.
Relationships: Senju Hashirama/Uchiha Madara
Comments: 113
Kudos: 155





	1. Chapter 1

_And he removed from thence, and digged another well; and for that they strove not: and he called the name of it Rehoboth; and he said, So hath the Susano’o of the Lord made room for us, and we shall be fruitful in the land. - Genesis 26:22_

Madara rocked back on his heels and surveyed the congregation with something approximating a warm smile. He leaned forward, resting his hands on either side of the pulpit, and watched with dark black eyes as his clan slowly filled the pews. He had yet to remove either his hat or his coat. His boots had left wet imprints on the rug that ran from the door to the altar.

Zechariah Small, the pastor, daubed at his forehead with his handkerchief, even as the snow gathered in the tall church windows. He sent up another silent prayer and hoped fervently, though in vain, that this year’s Christmas Eve Service would be shorter than the last.

The Uchiha clan could be called Christian, much in the same way pigs could be called cows. Cows and pigs are both mammals, after all; they both have four legs, a tail, and two eyes. They can have spots, or be uniformly colored; they are both domesticated animals. They’re very similar in many respects, except for all the huge, massively obvious ways in which they are not.

The religion that the Uchiha more-or-less subscribe to is Christian in that they follow the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth; they believe in One God; they fully acknowledge life after death and fear the fires of Perdition as much as any Christian would. They even have a bible.

The difference comes in that the Uchiha clan believe Jesus of Nazareth was a highly accomplished user of the sharingan, a type of magic power that manifests in the eyes after the wielder suffers great loss, and that he used this power to beat back the Roman legions. They believe that he broke out of his crypt with the mighty Susano’o, and that in the end of days all sinners would be cast into the Pit where the fires of Amaterasu burn forever. They also believe themselves to be descendants of this mythical sharingan-user, and tell stories of Uchihas of old who were able to summon its power themselves.

The bible they follow is the only one in existence. A French missionary named Pierre Barbet was the first to stumble upon the clan in the early 18th century; the bible in question was written during his sole attempt to bring the barbarians in the hills into the Lord’s light. The bible now sat on a small shelf in Madara Uchiha’s office, next to a pile of cheap knives and tins of tobacco. It was brought out once every year, on Christmas Eve, and presented to a long-suffering Zechariah Small, who, without fail, would refuse to conduct his service with it. The duty usually ended up falling to the clan head – in this case, Madara.

His sermons were things of legend.

“Cousins,” Madara said, the low timbre of his voice cutting easily through the murmurs of the crowd. “Aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews. We’ve survived another year, it seems. All thanks, of course, to our Lord God on High, who, through the beneficence of his mighty sharingan, has seen fit to make it so.” He picked up the ancient bible from its place on the pulpit and rapped on the wooden cover conspiratorially.

Scattered laughter and applause from the audience. Zechariah sucked in a deep breath and resumed his prayers. With luck, it would be over soon. Mr. Uchiha might even keep it under three hours this time.

* * *

A mile and a half away, windows shuttered against the frost and snow, the final nail was being driven into a newly built manor home.

* * *

Over 1,000 miles away, Butsuma Senju signed off on a shipping invoice, and presented his sons with two train tickets over Christmas dinner. The train was to be leaving in two hours. Thankfully, both sons were already packed.

* * *

“And why _do_ we praise His name?” Madara demanded to the riotous crowd. His voice shook the timbers overhead. “For we know what awaits us, don’t we? What awaits us, my brethren?”

“The fires of Amaterasu!” came the roar.

“The fires of Perdition itself, the unholy flame that never dies – so weep, my children, pray as hard as you can that His Eyes may look kindly upon your transgressions, for they are _legion_ and one –”

* * *

In the manor home, a foreman checked the last box on a long list. The newly-installed gas lamps flickered over fresh wallpaper.

* * *

“– and what greater mercy could there be, my children, than He who would use Izanagi to dry the floodwaters, He who would send down Susano’o upon His son such that he might lift the stone that buried him –”

* * *

“I _know_ , father,” Hashirama said, rolling his eyes. “That’s the entire point of sending us out there, isn’t it? You don’t have to tell me again!” He swung up into the carriage with barely-contained glee.

* * *

“– and that is why we are _here,_ cousins, because _we_ know what they do not; for we are _chosen_ , cousins, and for that gift we say _Praise be, Almighty God_ –”

The clan joined in the chorus, cacophonous voices rattling the windowpanes. There was no more pretense at an orderly church service – the crowd was clustered close around the pulpit, standing on the pews, sitting on any and every flat surface, from the piano to the altar itself, stamping their feet and howling like wolves –

Madara’s hat was long gone. His hair was unbound and wild down his back. He’d shed his coat in the first hour, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He spread his hands wide, like a conductor at an orchestra, and thundered, “ _Blessed_ is our Father, _blessed_ is His Son, _blessed_ is the Holy Susano’o! _Writhe_ under his gaze, children, for though he is mercy incarnate we deserve not even a _shred_ –”

Nezumi, a young woman with elbows like knives and knives like needles, began laughing hysterically from the back of the church. The smell of smoke began to seep through the air.

Zechariah stood in the far corner, trying desperately not to meet anyone’s gaze, and reflected bitterly that maybe if he’d just gone to a bigger parish, he wouldn’t have to deal with this every year. But the Uchiha clan was vast and densely concentrated in this area, and to do any business here was to do business with Madara Uchiha himself.

A window shattered amid the chaos. Zechariah clutched the bible close to his chest (decisively _not_ the same as the one the Uchiha patriarch was currently brandishing like a weapon) and reflected that at least, at the end of the day, the clan usually paid for the damages.

* * *

“I still dislike the purpose of this endeavor,” Tobirama said, frowning sharply. His arms were folded across his chest as he glared moodily out the train window. “Alcohol is the devil’s drink, brother.”

“Yes, yes, but it’ll be good business!” Hashirama said, jostling him from his seat opposite. “Father was quite adamant that we start with something small, and I think the area would be a good launching ground for a brewery. After all, technology’s come a long way since –”

“I _know_ where technology’s come from,” Tobirama interrupted. “That’s not the point. I am far from convinced that _you_ are the best arbiter of _local tastes_. You know as much about the area as I do.”

“Now, Tobirama, we both know that’s not quite true,” Hashirama said, winking and tapping his nose.

“Stop that,” Tobirama said frostily. He crossed his legs as well. “Your _dalliance_ as a child ten years ago does _not_ an anthropological study make, brother.”

“Oh, spare me,” Hashirama said, laughing and waving a hand. “It’s better than what _you_ did that summer. Do you even remember half of those books you read? You might as well have just stayed in New York!”

“Would that that had been an option,” Tobirama said.

* * *

“Hikaku, did we get everyone?” Madara asked briskly. He was drenched, half kneeling over a low copper tub that had been dragged into the middle of the church. There was a group of women standing in front of him, each holding a now-wet baby. The water that had sloshed over the sides of the tub was soaking through the abused rug underneath it.

The Uchiha clan only went to church once a year. It was decided a long time ago that it was best to be efficient about some things.

“Let me see,” Hikaku said from the other side of the church, well-out of the splash zone. “Fumiko, Tomiko, Emilia, Phyllis, Sachiko…”

“Pardon,” said one of the women, holding a still-dry baby aloft. “Lil’ Mako still hasn’t been baptized.”

“Oh, right.” Madara accepted the baby and unceremoniously dunked it in the water. The baby looked too stunned to cry as he held it back out to her. “My bad, Himari.”

“Thank you, Mr. Madara.”

Hikaku made a note in the ledger. The sun was starting the shine through the glass church windows. Zechariah Small snored softly in one of the back pews.

* * *

The day passed. The Uchiha clan cleared out of the church, much to Zechariah Small’s palpable relief. Madara Uchiha left an envelope of cash on the podium, as was customary.

Miles to the east, a locomotive powered down the Nickel Plate Road.

* * *

Two horses plodded determinedly through glittering snow.

“I can’t believe we’re back!” Hashirama said excitedly, almost bouncing in the carriage seat. “It’s been _so_ long!”

“Ten years.”

“A lifetime!” Hashirama said. He grabbed Tobirama by the shoulder and dragged him to the carriage window. “Look, look! There! We should build our brewery at the bottom of that cliff!”

Tobirama squinted through the frosty pane of glass. “What? Why? It’s in the middle of nowhere.”

“ _Everything’s_ in the middle of nowhere out here, Tobirama! That’s the beauty of it. We get to _make_ our own ‘somewhere’ out here!”

“I don’t think you appreciate how difficult establishing a business community will be,” Tobirama said curtly, pulling back onto his own side of the carriage. He straightened his rumpled overcoat with cat-like indignation.

“Pff, it won’t be difficult at all,” Hashirama said dismissively, not looking away from the scenery as they trundled down the road. “We have a few contacts Father made out here already, and we’re not even 30 miles from the nearest railroad – a mere day’s journey!”

“A _day_ to the _railroad_ , yes.” Tobirama squinted and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. This wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation. “Hashirama, we don’t even have furniture in our house yet. Let’s not get carried away.”

“Abstaining from dreaming about the future isn’t going to bring your armchair out here any faster, brother.”

“No, but it’ll make the wait more bearable for me,” Tobirama grumbled, slouching in his seat.

Hashirama squinted. “Is that the church?”

Tobirama leaned over out of his own volition, this time. His nose wrinkled disapprovingly. “It’s in some state of disrepair,” he said. “We must have a word with whoever owns the building.”

The Church of the Holy Sacrament was looking rather worse for wear. It was the day after Christmas, after all. Several windows had been busted out; there were scorch marks above the main door; the cross nailed to the front façade was listing to the side. It looked bleak in the weak afternoon sunlight.

“It looks like it got ransacked,” Hashirama said, voice somewhere between confusion, amusement, and alarm.

“I shudder to think what kind of barbarians would attack a humble church like this. And in our day and age, too.” Tobirama clucked his tongue disapprovingly.

They had come to a sort of crossroads, though it was hard to tell through all the snow. The carriage had come from the north. To the east, the pillaged Church of Holy Sacrament, and dense woodlands beyond; to the west, a series of small, unassuming wooden buildings with stout brick chimneys. A battered, painted sign was nailed to the one closest the road, reading _Red Grass Saloon_ in an ornate script.

“Is that a _bar_?” Hashirama asked delightedly. “Oh, excellent – look, Tobirama! Look! Our first customer!” He laughed as he pointed.

The bar was directly across the road from the church. Tobirama frowned and narrowed his eyes.

The carriage continued south, horses tramping determinedly through the loose-packed snow. The woods pressed in from all directions; bare branches towered over the icy road. Every once in a while, Hashirama thought he could catch a glimpse of movement far in the trees – but everything was always still when he turned for a closer look.

The wilderness cleared away so quickly it was like they had entered into some other realm. One minute the carriage was hemmed in on all sides by frost-encrusted scrub and briar, and bare trees that clawed through the icy air – and in the next, the ground leveled out, the thicket cleared, and the carriage was sailing through a pristine, perfectly flat, snowy white field. The smooth expanse of snow was interrupted only by the large manor that rose before them like a mountain.

“Home sweet home,” Hashirama said.


	2. Chapter 2

_But as God hath distributed to every man, as the Lord hath called every one through the Light of His Eternal Sharingan, so let him see. And so ordain I in all churches. - 1 Corinthians 7:17_

It took a month for Zechariah Small to repair the Church of Holy Sacrament. This wasn’t exactly a problem, given that the congregation he served had already attended their yearly service. He wasn’t really concerned about anyone having to miss a weekly sermon or two during the construction.

On Sunday, January 30th, Zechariah got out of bed, donned his robes, and proceeded into the sanctuary, key in hand, ready to be greeted by the brisk winter morning air and an empty front stoop. As he reached the front door of the church, he paused. He could hear the low murmur of voices outside. Zechariah, hands trembling slightly, turned the key in the brass lock and opened the church door.

“About time,” said a sharp voice. It was a man – a young man, it seemed, despite the white hair. He was immaculately dressed, from his neatly trimmed sideburns to the spotless folds of his suit. He snapped shut the pocket watch he was holding and said, “It’s almost 9:30. Do all your services start this late?” His pale red eyes were narrowed as he looked Zechariah up and down.

“Settle down, Tobirama,” came a cheerful rejoinder. Zechariah, wide eyed, looked past the irritable man only to see an even taller, broad-shouldered man behind him. The second man stepped forward, extending a gloved hand towards the stunned pastor. “Good morning!” he said.

Zechariah took the hand and gave it a brief shake. “Good morning,” he repeated. “Are you… here for church?”

“Why else would we be out in weather like this?” said the white-haired man, scowling.

“We are, indeed!” confirmed the second man. “My name is Hashirama Senju, and this is my brother, Tobirama.”

“A pleasure,” Zechariah said numbly. He finally came to his senses and took two steps backward, extending his arm back towards the sanctuary. “Please, please, come in.”

Tobirama Senju stepped in through the door, removing his hat and brushing the snow pointedly off his shoulders as he proceeded towards the front row.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be having a service so soon after your repairs were complete, but Tobirama was confident that you’d be eager to resume your duties – and it looks like you were right, little brother!” Hashirama laughed brightly as he followed him to the front pew, removing his own hat and shaking out his long, brown ponytail.

“Excuse me for just a moment,” Zechariah said, ducking back into his quarters. He was having a small, private crisis. It had been years since he’d actually been called upon to host a church service. When was the last time he’d even prepared a sermon? He had to have something written down somewhere. Which scriptures were appropriate to this time of year? The New Year was tomorrow – surely he could find something for that –

Out in the sanctuary, Tobirama pulled out his pocket watch once more.

* * *

The service was short, but that suited Hashirama just fine. As Zechariah closed the bible and stepped down from the pulpit, face still pale, Hashirama stood up from the pew.

“My good man,” he said, walking towards the terrified pastor. “Might I have a moment of your time? We are, as I’m sure you’ve divined, quite new to the area! And I have a few questions.”

“Make it _quick_ , brother, I beseech you,” Tobirama grumbled from the front row.

Zechariah was sweating slightly. “I’m not the most knowledgeable man when it comes to regional affairs, I’m afraid,” he said, clutching the bible.

Hashirama leaned on the banister and smiled winningly at Zechariah. “I’m sure you know more than we do,” he said. “For example, I was trying to find a good map of the area, and for the _life_ of me I couldn’t figure out what this region is actually called.”

“It’s not called anything,” Zechariah said blankly.

Tobirama frowned. “What do you mean, it’s not called anything? It has to have some kind of name under the local governance, it’s –”

“There is no local governance,” Zechariah said, a small wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. He looked from Tobirama back to Hashirama, uneasily. “This area’s not governed by any of the local territories.”

“ _What_?” Tobirama said, rising to his feet. “That can’t be right. Who records land distributions in the area? Our family was able to purchase the land for our home; there must be some kind of regional government.”

“Well, I hold copies of the deeds and leases in the area,” Zechariah said. “But I don’t actually manage anything or deal in any business of any kind. Any sales are usually processed through the clan head.”

“Clan head?” Hashirama said blankly.

Zechariah’s sweating intensified. “Yes,” he said, fishing for a handkerchief in the folds of his robe. “Mr. Uchiha.”

Hashirama’s eyes brightened. “Oh!” he said, beaming. “I think I know who you’re talking about!”

Tobirama rolled his eyes and crossed his arms.

“Ah – is – is that so?” Zechariah said, taking two steps back towards the door. “What a coincidence. I really must – I’m sure you two are both very busy, so I shan’t keep you – it was really lovely seeing you both, I’ll see you again next Sunday, I’m sure –”

“Yes, you will,” Tobirama said crisply, marching forward and seizing Hashirama by the elbow. “Come along, brother.”

“Have a good day, Mr. Small!” Hashirama called back cheerfully as Tobirama dragged him out of the church.

* * *

“You know, it makes sense in retrospect,” Hashirama said over the wind. His horse tossed its head and snorted, breath crystallizing into a white cloud in the chill air.

“What does?” Tobirama asked, drawing his scarf higher over his nose.

“Well, we negotiated with an Uchiha family to buy our land, didn’t we? I assumed we’d just, ah… forgone the usual bureaucracy. But if that’s the way things work out here, it might be a good idea to better acquaint ourselves with –”

“You just want to see that boy again. Whatever his name was.”

Hashirama flushed bright scarlet and laughed. “He’d hardly be a _boy_ anymore, Tobirama! And besides, he was Tajima Uchiha’s son. Mightn’t that be a useful connection?”

“Assuming Tajima Uchiha is still the clan leader,” Tobirama said. “Assuming this man even remembers you at all.”

“He will,” Hashirama said determinedly. “Madara wouldn’t forget me that easily.”

* * *

The New Year passed in the Senju household with relatively little fanfare. Their servants arrived with the rest of their furniture in a caravan of heavy wagons that cut deep gouges in the slushy ground. An office was established in the upper floor of the house, with two handsome mahogany desks, one of which was already filling with papers. The rest of the rooms were similarly outfitted, and in almost no time at all the entire house was fully furnished.

The snows of winter bled into spring. The sweeping snowy field around the Senju estate turned into a minefield of deep, sucking pits of mud and silt under the torrential spring rains. Tobirama spent most days sequestered in his office, leaving only as far as the front stoop to hand their poor, hired courier thick packets of letters. Hashirama had no such compunction about the muck and mud –despite the still-frigid air, many mornings would dawn on him saddling a horse in their modest barn and cantering out into the surrounding hillsides. He would find long, looping trails that seemed to go in circles; clear evidence of human habitation, like clean-cut stumps and wheel tracks – but not once would he find any other people. He would return, wind-bitten and flushed from the cold, and report his findings to Tobirama over dinner.

After several lengthy letters and strained church services, Zechariah Small finally assented to letting Tobirama look at the densely-packed cabinet of land records in his back office. Tobirama left the church with a sour twist to his mouth and a determined gleam in his eyes. After several long hours locked in their shared office, Tobirama finally emerged triumphant, bearing a single list of names and a map that was so thickly covered in lines it was almost impossible to read.

A few miles to the northeast, on a clear (and relatively dry) spring day, Madara whistled sharply to a coachman. Polished copper glinted in the sunlight. Kuro, a strapping young man with the same ragged black hair as the rest of his brethren, guided the wagon in through a wide set of barn doors.

* * *

_Kazumi –_

_Sorry for my late response to your last letter. I don’t have the faintest clue what building you’re describing. There’s no such estate for at least 50 miles away. If it really is located where you say, I’m going to have to have words with Saito and his wife. If he’s sold my land to some rail tycoon without my say-so, he’s going to have a lot to answer for._

_Madara_

* * *

“I understand this comes a little out of the blue,” Hashirama said, laughing sheepishly. “But I am still rather new to the area, so I don’t really have a grasp on how things go here yet.”

The man and woman seated across the table from him glanced briefly at each other. They didn’t seem impressed.

Hashirama felt comically large in the small kitchen of the ramshackle house. The stool he was sitting on creaked alarmingly every time he shifted, and when he’d first entered, he’d had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling.

“I love your curtains!” Hashirama added brightly as he pulled out his ledger.

The woman looked at the sink, where a pair of dull paisley curtains hung over the window, then back at him. She didn’t believe him.

“May I ask your business here, sir?” the man said. His jet black hair was greying at the temples.

“Of course!” Hashirama said brightly. He extended a hand over the rough-hewn wood of the table. “My name is Hashirama Senju. I’m interested in buying your land.”

The man stared at his hand like it was a pit viper. “Buying our land,” he said.

“Yes, sir.” Hashirama didn’t retract his hand. He was being _friendly_ , goddamn it. “Am I correct in assuming you are Mr. Tanaka Uchiha?”

“… Yes,” said the man after a long silence. He finally took Hashirama’s hand and gave it a curt shake, before pulling back like it had burned him.

“Excellent,” Hashirama said, drawing back and flipping open his book. “That’s great, just great.” He made a small mark on a dense list. “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting your clan before!”

“Is that so,” said the woman flatly. She did not introduce herself.

“Yes, indeed,” Hashirama hummed, flipping through the pages. “I met little Madara Uchiha a good while back! And his departed brother, of course, God rest his soul.”

The two did not join in his invocation. They shared another glance.

Hashirama pulled Tobirama’s map out of his coat and began to trace through the dense tangle of markings. “Let’s see…” Hashirama mumbled. “Your lot begins… here?”

“No,” the woman said impulsively, reaching over the table before she could stop herself. “That’s a common mistake. Our land begins _here_. That area belongs to Fumiko and her sons.”

“Ah, thank you,” Hashirama said, beaming. “So, your land goes from here to here, right?”

“Yes,” Tanaka said, narrowing his eyes.

“Excellent,” Hashirama beamed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. “I just wanted to reaffirm it personally with you two before we made any offers. The absolute state of the records in this area, it’s just unbelievable!”

“Offers,” Tanaka said. “You said you wanted to buy our land?”

“That’s going to take a lot of money,” the woman said derisively, folding her arms. “We’ve been here for a long time.”

“I’m sure,” Hashirama said brightly. “That’s why we’re negotiating with _you_ , rather than the Sarutobi family! That’s who actually owns the deed to this lot, right?”

“No, the Sarutobi family owns the rights to the deed. We own the deed itself, under a trust with the Haruno clan. The Uchiha clan name owns the land.”

Hashirama smiled brightly again, not bothering to try and untangle that statement, and handed Tanaka the envelope. He watched placidly as the man opened it.

Tanaka, paling visibly, wordlessly handed the envelope to his wife.

In Hashirama’s experience, there were few legal documents that could stand in the face of an inch and a half of hundred-dollar bills.

“Now,” Hashirama said, uncrossing his legs. The stool squeaked loudly. “I understand if you want to run this by Mr. Tajima first – given that he is your clan head and all –”

“No,” the woman said, staring at the envelope in her hands like she couldn’t believe it was real. “No, I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

“Wonderful!” Hashirama made a mark in the center of the plot on the map. There were already three other marks like it in the surrounding area. “Tobirama can send someone by later this week to discuss the terms.” He snapped the small book shut and tucked it back into his coat, standing. He offered his hand again and this time the wife took it without hesitation. “It’s been a real pleasure doing business with you two!”

* * *

There was a knock on the church door.

Zechariah Small started so badly he knocked over an inkwell on the corner of his desk. He hastily daubed at it with his handkerchief, but the damage was done. He’d have to re-write the entire sermon.

The knock sounded again at the front door of the church.

“Just a minute!” Zechariah called, tightening the belt of his evening robe and hurrying out of his chambers. “Just – give me a moment –”

It was completely dark outside the sanctuary windows. The sun had gone down almost two hours ago, and it was a Thursday. Who could possibly be calling on him at this hour?

Zechariah Small reached the church door and fumbled with the key as he tried to catch his breath. The door opened noiselessly on well-oiled hinges, and there, framed by the black, moonless night behind him, stood Madara Uchiha.

“Evening,” said Madara evenly. He pushed the door open further and stepped inside without asking permission.

“M-Mr. Uchiha,” Zechariah stammered, taking a step back. “Why are – what can – to what do I owe the –”

“Mr. Small,” Madara said, unsmiling. “I should apologize for the late hour, but there have been… concerns, as of late, that I thought should best be addressed _sooner_ rather than _later_.”

“Concerns?” Zechariah Small repeated, paling. “What could you possibly mean?”

Madara began to walk towards the back of the church, waving a hand languidly in the air. “Do you remember my cousin, Saito?”

“Ah, well,” Zechariah stuttered, scrambling to catch up. “I’m afraid –”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t,” Madara mused as he reached the door to Zechariah’s chambers. “He’s really a bit unforgettable. Can’t shoot, can’t ride a horse. Can barely work a still. But then, that’s what you get when people marry too far outside the family, isn’t it? Don’t answer that.”

Zechariah watched haplessly as Madara strolled unabashedly into his home. He led them into the small room that held the land records. Zechariah called it an ‘office,’ but it was an office in the same way the congregation of the Church of Holy Sacrament was Christian. The room was small and cramped. The walls were packed tight with shelves and boxes; the shelves and boxes were overflowing with papers bound in thick packets. Madara walked up to one of the towering stacks and pulled one down with easy familiarity.

“Is there something specific you’re looking for?” Zechariah asked anxiously from the doorway.

“Yes and no,” Madara said, pulling out a yellowed bundle of papers. He sat back on his haunches and blew the dust off of the front page. “I’m just here to… confirm something.” He laughed once, sharply, and cast a Zechariah a look that was too bored to be called hostile, but was nowhere near pleasant. “I wouldn’t dare intrude on your hospitality on something as banal as a hunch, Mr. Small.”

Zechariah didn’t have anything to say in response to that. He watched Madara slice through the thin cord binding the papers together with a knife that had materialized out of nowhere. It vanished back into his sleeve.

“Now, let’s see,” Madara murmured, licking his thumb and flipping through the pages. “We have Takeuchi… Tamako… hmm… Ah.” He pulled a single leaf of paper out of the dusty stack. “Here we are.” He let the unbound papers fall to the floor in disarray as he stood. “Tanaka Uchiha.” He chuckled mirthlessly and tapped a faded line of print.

“Is that all you needed, then?” Zechariah said, pulling the door open a little wider.

Madara’s smile glinted in the weak light. “No,” he said, folding the paper crisply and tucking it into his jacket. “I wanted to have some words with you as well, Mr. Small. Don’t worry. We needn’t take too long.”

“Oh,” Zechariah said weakly.

Madara placed a hand on his shoulder and steered him back into the sanctuary proper. They walked towards the altar, and for a terrified second Zechariah was convinced that the Uchiha patriarch was about to force him to his knees and denounce his God – but Madara just steered him towards the rows of empty wooden pews instead.

“Please,” Madara said, coming to a halt. “Have a seat.”

Zechariah, tremblingly, sat. Madara leaned against the banister, back to the wooden cross high on the wall behind him, and folded his arms. They sat like that for some time.

Zechariah opened his mouth. “What was it that –”

“Who was here last Sunday?”

“L-last Sunday? You mean during the service?”

“Mmhmm.” Madara nodded slowly. “Tomiko was telling us all how you’d gotten yourself a proper congregation, Mr. Small. Coming in every week and everything. I thought it only fitting to come congratulate you.” His eyes were narrow slits in the dim light. “Where do they live?”

“I – I’m sure I have no idea,” Zechariah said, sweating profusely. He wished fervently that he’d thought to bring another handkerchief with him.

“What are their names?”

“They’re the Senju family, they –”

Madara bolted upright. Zechariah flinched.

Madara’s hands were fisted at his sides, but his voice was soft. “Is Butsuma Senju attending your church service, Mr. Small?”

Zechariah blinked in stupefaction. “Butsuma? I’ve never heard of any Butsuma.”

“Then _who_?” Madara hissed, leaning forward and gripping the back of the pew. “Tell me his name, Zechariah. Let me hear it.”


	3. Chapter 3

_Beloved, let us love one another: for love is of God; and every one that loveth is born of God, and hath seen God through the Sharingan of their souls. - 1 John 4:7_

It was Hashirama.

The mystery buyer with more money than God was Hashirama _fucking_ Senju.

Madara’s horse followed obediently behind him as Madara walked back into the trees. The moon was little more than a sliver of light in the sky. It did nothing to illuminate the path below, but Madara knew these woods as well as his own bedroom. He could navigate them blindfolded. He could navigate them blind.

Hashirama Senju was little more than a blur in his memories now – a terrible haircut, a ridiculous outfit, and a laugh that lit embers in the pit of Madara’s soul. Hashirama Senju had been nothing more than a two-month long blip in Madara’s history. He could barely even remember what he’d looked like.

Butsuma Senju, of course, was a familiar name to Madara. He’d seen it often enough. Who hadn’t heard of the illustrious head of the Senju Clan, the man with a thousand skills, the proud proprietor of a hundred companies? Butsuma Senju ate gold-plated lobster and slept on diamond sheets. Even out here, people knew of Butsuma Senju.

Madara hated the Senju family with the same dull, seething animosity with which he hated most things from the state of New York.

The Senju were land developers. Thus, it followed that if Butsuma Senju had sent his sons down here, it was because he wanted them to follow in his footsteps and develop this land. If Hashirama Senju had grown up to be anything like his father, he would no doubt be successful, too. If Tanaka’s testimony was worth anything – and Madara knew it was, thanks to the corroboration from Zechariah Small – then Hashirama Senju was prepared to shell out absolutely preposterous sums of money in order to achieve this goal.

Madara, frankly, didn’t even blame Saito or Tanaka for selling out without asking him first. If a stranger had offered him $5,000 for non-arable land, he probably would’ve taken the cash, too.

Hashirama Senju was going to become a problem.

* * *

It was Wednesday. The rain was pounding against the walls of the Senju estate, as it had been for the last three days. The letter had come as a surprise to the household – mostly Hashirama, to whom the letter was addressed. There was no return address or postage stamp on the damp envelope. When Hashirama had inquired about its origins with their soggy, beleaguered courier, he’d gotten nothing but a dark look in response. Hashirama politely but firmly insisted that he come inside, at least have a cup of tea or coffee, dry off a little – but the man just shook his head and faded back into the storm outside, hunching his shoulders against the rain.

Hashirama returned to the parlor, where he’d been reading the newspaper next to the fireplace, and unfolded the envelope. It smelled faintly of pipe smoke.

The letter went like this:

_Mr. H. Senju,_

_It has come to my attention that you have an interest in learning more about this region and its inhabitants. You’ve already met Tanaka Uchiha and Saito Uchiha – it is only fitting that you now meet me. Come to my warehouse. Let’s talk business._

_See the enclosed page for directions._

_M. Uchiha._

_Proprietor of Sharingan Breweries_

Hashirama blinked, then reread it, dark brown eyes scanning over the page as if it was going to reveal some kind of secret upon closer appraisal. The handwriting was sharp and thickly clustered; at times, the pen strokes almost went through the thin paper.

 _M. Uchiha_. Could it be? Hashirama felt almost giddy. The way the letter read, it sounded like this M. Uchiha was speaking from some place of authority – did that mean that Hashirama’s childhood friend was now the head of his clan? Hashirama folded the letter back into shape and got to his feet, try to tamp down the sudden energy bubbling in his stomach. It might not even be the same M. Uchiha as he knew. There were plenty of names that started with M! Margaret, Martha, Marianne… Hashirama unfolded the letter and read it again.

“Brother?” Tobirama asked from the doorway. “Was someone here just now?”

Hashirama wheeled around, hands automatically flying behind his back. “No!” he said quickly.

Tobirama was holding a small sheaf of envelopes. He looked disappointed. “Shame,” he said. “I need these to be delivered to Mr. Small.”

“All of them?” Hashirama asked, furrowing his brow. “You couldn’t have just written him one letter?”

“I kept remembering things I needed to add after I sealed them,” Tobirama said, blushing defensively. “Are you sure the courier wasn’t here? I could’ve sworn –”

“Well, he _was_ ,” Hashirama said. “But he left almost immediately, so you probably wouldn’t have been able to catch him anyway. He seemed in some hurry to get going!”

Tobirama cocked his head. “What are you holding behind your back?”

Hashirama flushed. “Oh!” he said, laughing sheepishly and bringing his hands into view. “It’s a, uh… a letter!”

Tobirama’s red eyes slowly rose from the still-damp paper in Hashirama’s hands to his face. “I see. Anything interesting?”

“Possibly! I – uh – here.” Hashirama thrust the letter towards Tobirama over the back of his armchair. “It’s probably best if you just read it yourself.”

Tobirama took two measured steps forward, depositing his bundle of envelopes on the small table between their armchairs, and accepted the papers with narrow eyes. They narrowed further as he read it. He flipped over to the page of directions and let out a small, disapproving, “Hm.”

“Do you think it’s him?” Hashirama asked, leaning forward and resting an arm on the back of the chair.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Tobirama said crisply, folding up the letter. He handed it back to Hashirama and wiped his hand on the upholstered cushion. “That letter did make one thing eminently clear, however.”

“What’s that?”

“They’re going to kill you, and will most likely dump your body in the river,” Tobirama said, gathering his envelopes from the side table. He paused, folding the bundle under his arm, and gave a half-shrug. “It’s what I would do, in his position. You are aware what that family’s main source of income is, yes?”

Hashirama laughed loudly, waving a hand in front of his face. “God, Tobirama, and they say you don’t have a sense of humor. They’re not going to kill me! He wants to talk business, he said so!”

“’Business’ is a nebulous term, brother,” Tobirama said icily, turning towards the door. “I’ll not protest your going, if you really must, but if you do you _will_ be taking my pistol.”

“Is that _really_ necessary?” Hashirama asked. He rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Just because they’re making – well, _moonshine,_ doesn’t mean they can’t be civil!”

“Be that as it may, you will take my gun, and we can both be thrilled when you end up having no cause to use it,” Tobirama called behind him as he walked out of the parlor. “Let me know when you plan to leave, brother.”

Hashirama shook his head fondly. His younger brother had a head for numbers like no one else Hashirama had seen. It made him an invaluable asset! But for all his wisdom when it came to balancing a checkbook, Tobirama’s greatest flaw was his lack of _instinct_ when it came to doing business. Some things just seemed like good ideas to Hashirama, and, much to Tobirama’s consternation, these things usually tended to work out pretty well for him. This meeting was absolutely one of these things!

The instructions were extremely simple. It was a short list, one that included the step, _Wait there like an idiot until they come to pick you up._ But that didn’t deter Hashirama, who, at 6pm sharp the next day, saddled up a horse and rode out to the designated meeting spot, Tobirama’s 1890 Remington securely at his hip.

The area they were in had no gravel roads, let alone paved ones. The best anyone could hope for was a well-trodden dirt path, which, after the torrential rains of the past week, had turned into a cement-like paste. Hashirama was preoccupied with the logistics of infrastructure the entire ride through the wood – once they managed to pave a few roads, it would certainly improve their distribution rates, not to mention their access to materials – and almost missed the signpost by which he was meant to wait. It read “River Road” in faded block letters. Hashirama guided his horse to a stop under a wide tree branch and waited there like an idiot.

Half an hour passed. Hashirama dismounted his horse and stroked it absently, listening to the forest around them. He liked the woods, despite Tobirama’s grumbling about insects and weeds and vermin. It was beginning to get dark, and Hashirama almost considered going back – then a twig snapped further down the path.

“Oh, he actually came,” came a voice from the shadows.

“Well, I’ll be,” said another.

“Hello!” Hashirama said, waving in their general direction. “I’m here to see your warehouse!”

“Yes, you are!” said the voice. It sounded vaguely mocking. Hashirama decided not to care.

“Come on, then.” The second voice was much closer. Hashirama squinted and could make out the outline of a broad-shouldered man. A hand reached out to take his horse’s reigns. “Don’t want to keep the boss waiting.”

 _You kept him waiting for the past half hour_ , Hashirama thought uncharitably. He followed the two down the path, ducking under the low hanging branches. “Do you two work at this warehouse?” Hashirama asked brightly. His question was met with laughter.

They walked for a few minutes, until the sun was fully below the horizon and the moon alone shone down through the trees. Hashirama caught only occasional glimpses of his guides – both men, it seemed, with inky black hair. Their clothes were threadbare, made of cheap wool, but well-tailored. There were rifles slung over their shoulders.

The path didn’t so much end as it did melt into the trees; one minute they were slogging through mud, and the next, cutting tracks into the dense underbrush as they made their way through the forest. The two navigated the woods with an ease like they were walking on pavement, their steps quick and sure as they led him to the warehouse.

Hashirama didn’t ask what kind of warehouse didn’t even have a road leading up to it. He wasn’t sure it would be legally advisable for him to know the answer.

“We’re here,” announced the smaller of his two guides.

“What should we do with his horse?” asked the one holding the reins.

“Put it with ours, I guess,” said the first. Then he stepped through a gap in the trees and vanished.

Hashirama looked askance at his remaining guide.

“Go on,” he said, waving his hand. “Follow him. I’ll deal with your horse.”

Hashirama nodded and straightened his shoulders, then squeezed through the narrow opening between the trees.

The Sharingan Breweries Warehouse used to be a barn. It had the same general shape – the mansard roof just barely topped the tree line – but it had clearly been repurposed for something else somewhere down the line. Pipes snaked out of the sides of the barn into the trees; a row of smoking chimneys on the roof betrayed the activity inside. Hashirama could dimly make out loaded wagons of burlap sacks and barrels in the faint moonlight.

His guide was waiting for him near a small door cut into the side of the barn. There was a stylized fan painted on it, in faded red and white. The man opened it with an exaggerated bow. “After you, good sir.”

Hashirama stepped through.

The smell of corn, smoke, and alcohol hit him like a brick. The Sharingan Breweries warehouse was a hive of activity – men and women of all ages ran to and fro, feeding fires under massive copper stills, measuring, weighing, mixing corn mash, bottling and packing clear liquor into crates. There was even a man drawing labels with a fine-nib pen, squinting down at a bottle with the cap between his teeth.

“Wow,” Hashirama said. “It smells like grits.”

His guide snorted in surprised laughter as he shut the door behind him. “Boss!” he hollered, ducking around Hashirama. “Senju’s arrived!”


	4. Chapter 4

_There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear, as the Holy Susano’o so did to the Roman Legions: because fear hath torment. He that feareth is not made perfect in love_ _. - 1 John 4:18_

All activity in the warehouse ceased. Madara threw down his pen, uncaring of the ink stain now spreading across the letter he’d been writing, and threw open the door to his office. His cousins were all looking towards the side door, necks craning to catch a glimpse of –

Madara saw Hashirama before Hashirama saw him. He was tall – impossibly tall, it seemed, even from a distance. He had long, straight brown hair that was tied back in a low ponytail, and broad shoulders that pulled at his dark woolen suit jacket. Madara slammed the office door shut behind him.

Hashirama turned, and their eyes met over the expanse of the barn. The distance between them seemed to melt away. Madara’s family, the clamor of the boilers, the haze of steam – all of it gone as his focus was completely subsumed in Hashirama’s honey amber eyes. Hashirama’s smile was like dawn breaking; as Madara’s feet moved of their own accord, he felt his soul tremble in his chest. He was breathless; he was pinned, like a moth on cardstock, wings fluttering in vain at the sudden ache behind his ribs. Hashirama was saying something – his mouth was moving – but Madara wouldn’t have been able to hear him over the warehouse clamor, anyway.

Hashirama moved like water, flowing through the clustered tables like a stream carving through a forest, ducking and weaving around Madara’s clansmen while barely even acknowledging their presence. His eyes were fixed on Madara. Madara never wanted him to look at anything else, ever again. He felt like he was floating; he felt invincible, like he could kill a bear with his hands alone, as long as those warm brown eyes were watching.

He came to a stop before Madara – or Madara’s feet brought him to stand still before this impossible thing in Hashirama’s skin – and Madara had to look up to see him properly, because Tanaka had been right in his description in all the worst ways. Madara’s lips parted, but the words caught in his throat. He could see the laugh lines around Hashirama’s eyes.

Where had that thin, reedy child from his memories gone? The badly-dressed idiot with the ridiculous hair, who laughed too loudly at all the wrong things and had elbows as sharp as hammer claws? In some dark, distant part of his mind, Madara cursed himself violently for not considering that the Hashirama that would come to his door would be an adult – but who could’ve anticipated anything like this?

And then Hashirama opened his mouth.

“Hello!” he said loudly, extending one hand in a motion so abrupt it seemed to startle even Hashirama himself. “I’m Hashirama!” When Madara said nothing, eyes fixed blankly on the hand that hovered between them like a half-built bridge, he continued, “Hashirama Senju!”

Madara, entirely on reflex, grasped the hand and gave it a single shake. Hashirama’s hands were larger than his, and warm. “I know,” Madara said, still a little stunned. He looked back up at the dark caramel eyes above him. “I invited you here.”

Hashirama didn’t release his hand. He, too, sounded almost breathless as he said, “You’re Madara Uchiha!” He hadn’t once looked away from Madara’s gaze.

“I… know,” Madara repeated slowly. There was a small lock of hair escaping from Hashirama’s ponytail at his temple. “You’re Hashirama.”

“Yes,” Hashirama agreed.

They still hadn’t released each other’s hand.

Hikaku coughed sharply. The workers, who had stopped to stare at the spectacle unfolding in their midst, immediately resumed their activities.

“It’s good to see you again,” Hashirama said, his eyes bright and his voice soft.

Madara’s mouth opened, and he suddenly remembered why he’d invited this man here in the first place. “Come with me,” Madara said shortly. He released Hashirama’s hand, and as the cold air broke through his fingers, turned back to the office.

“Of course,” Hashirama said, smile again shining across his face.

Madara held the door open for Hashirama, and as they entered the cramped office, slammed it shut once more. He ducked around the other man, disappearing briefly into a dark room beyond. Madara returned dragging an abused wooden chair behind him. Between himself, the chair already present in the office, and Hashirama, there was barely enough room to stand.

Madara thrust the chair at him. “Sit.”

Hashirama maneuvered into it, pulling up to the scarred desk. His deep amber eyes scanned over the mess of papers, knives, and copper fittings that littered the table surface.

Madara shoved the mess into the corners of the desk and fell into his own chair, wrenching open a drawer from the cabinet beside him. “Why,” Madara asked flatly, pulling out a map and shaking it open, “are you buying my land?” He spread it over the table surface and turned to glare at Hashirama through narrowed eyes. “Did you think we wouldn’t _notice_?”

“Your land?” Hashirama said, eyes wide with surprise. “I wasn’t sure it was yours – the legal owner was –”

“The Uchiha clan,” Madara said. “In every single case, the legal owner is the Uchiha clan. You’ve been negotiating with the wrong people, Mr. Senju. You should be negotiating with _me._ ”

Any other man would’ve shrunk back at his tone. Any other man would’ve been cowed by the extensive collection of knives scattered around the office. Any other man would’ve seen the way Madara’s hand rested on his 1871 Colt revolver and _taken the fucking hint._

But Hashirama leaned forward and rested his warm, broad hand squarely on Madara’s knee and said, in a voice akin to a monk receiving revelations from on high, “That’s exactly what I want to do!”

* * *

“So,” Nezumi said to the crowd gathered around the mash bucket. “Hashirama Senju is built like a fucking barge. Who saw that coming?”

“I wish someone would look at _me_ like that,” Tomiko said dreamily, pouring cornmeal into the bucket.

“Nezumi, you have at least three more boxes to pack,” Hikaku said sternly from the other side of the stove. “Quit gossiping.”

“If Madara gets to take a break, we should too!”

“He’s working,” Hikaku said shortly.

“ _Is_ he?” Nezumi asked, leaning over the stove. Her eyebrows were waggling.

“What else would he be doing in there?” Hikaku asked exasperatedly.

Nezumi just grinned widely, showing every single one of her sharp teeth.

Tomiko gaped at her, cornmeal forgotten. “You don’t think – Mr. Madara isn’t –”

“I’m just _saying_ ,” Nezumi said. Her hair was beginning to fall out of its bun again. “You saw the look on his face, didn’t you?”

“But he’s – Mr. Madara’s –” Tomiko shook her head. “No way. Absolutely not.”

“Would you be willing to put _money_ on it?”

Tomiko stared at her with round eyes. “Do you _really_ think he –”

“ _I_ think,” Nezumi interrupted, “that with a man like Hashirama Senju, _anything’s_ possible.”

“Nezumi, for the last time, stop,” Hikaku’s voice was firm. He made a mark on his clipboard, then spared a brief glance towards the closed office door. He sighed, and reached into his coat, pulling out a dollar bill that he passed to Nezumi with the words, “Not yet.”

* * *

“You’re here to build a brewery,” Madara said, rubbing his temples. He looked down at the proposal Hashirama had placed on his desk.

“Yes, indeed!” Hashirama said enthusiastically, rapping the paper with his knuckles. “My family already has wineries and vineyards, but my father thought an appropriate venture in this region would be something more suited to local tastes!”

“The _locals_ ,” Madara stressed, “have a taste for _moonshine._ Not whatever overpriced swill you intend to sell here.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “More to the point, why should I help you at all? We’d be competing for the same customers.” His eyes slid over to glare at Hashirama. “I am finding myself with a paucity of reasons to help you or your kind, Mr. Senju.”

Hashirama was staring at him, one elbow on Madara’s desk.

Madara shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “What?”

Hashirama started, then looked around the office like he’d forgotten where he was. He turned back to Madara. “How’s your father? Doesn’t he still lead your clan?”

A cold, hard lump coalesced in the pit of Madara’s stomach. “You have some gall,” he said quietly, eyes boring into Hashirama’s own, “to be asking questions like that. You, Butsuma Senju’s own son.”

Hashirama’s eyebrows drew together. “I’m not sure what you mean. Did something happen?”

Madara’s chair fell with a clatter as he shot to his feet. “ _Did something happen_ ,” he snarled. “Did something – did you sustain some kind of head injury, Mr. Senju? Did your good father drop you out of a carriage on your way back north all those years ago?” A knife materialized in his hand.

Hashirama got to his feet as well, and for one exhilarating moment Madara thought he was about to be attacked – but Hashirama just rested his warm, broad hands on Madara’s shoulders, and in a somber voice said, “I am deeply sorry for your loss. My father’s a kind man, and I’m sure, if you were to address to him your grievances, he would do everything in his power to make amends. My brother and I hold nothing but respect for you and your kin – please believe me when I say that the news of the death of a man like Tajima Uchiha comes as a most unwelcome shock.”

Madara gaped at him. His fingers tightened around the knife. “My father shot himself,” Madara said shortly, watching Hashirama’s face with the intent of a lion stalking its prey. “He shot himself because _your_ father drove him to destitution.”

Madara had enough time to see Hashirama’s face crumple before his vision was obscured by the broad stretch of dark brown wool as Hashirama crushed him to his chest. “Words cannot express the depth of my regret,” Hashirama said, his arms heavy and warm around Madara’s shoulders. “Would that I could do something to make amends – but I can’t answer for my father. All I can do is express my deepest sympathies. I’m so sorry, Madara. I had no idea that such a thing would have come from our meeting.”

Madara’s brain was struggling in vain to process what was currently happening. His breathing was uneven, his hands were shaking – he almost stabbed Hashirama just on principle. The knife trembled in his hand. What exactly could he say to that? It wasn’t like Tajima’s death had affected Madara overmuch – the man had been a negligent drunk, at best, and a violent drunk at worst. His early death had given Madara the reins to a family rapidly spiraling towards poverty, and it had taken everything in his power to drag them even to where they were today. Quite honestly, if Butsuma Senju _hadn’t_ ruined Tajima’s life, the Uchiha clan very well could have dissolved completely by now.

Of course, this didn’t change the fact that Hashirama was still hugging him, and Madara was just standing there and letting it happen. “It was a long time ago,” he said at last. His voice sounded like it was coming through a long tube.

Hashirama pulled back and rested his hands on Madara’s shoulders once more. “Be that as it may,” he said firmly. He took his seat again before Madara could follow through with his now-clamorous instinct to start stabbing. “I hope,” he said firmly, adjusting his coat. “That the business we do tonight will do some small measure of satisfaction to your family that we might continue our acquaintance in an amicable fashion. That said, you made a most salient point earlier – we _would_ be competing for the same share of the market, it is true. But! The improvements we plan for this area and the surrounding woodlands would also benefit you and your kin in the production of your own product.”

Madara reeled. This man changed tracks faster than a freight train. He let the knife fall on the table with a clatter, and, despite himself, again took his seat. “What kind of improvements?” he asked. 

“Roads, for one! These dirt roads are most unreliable. Here one season and gone the next! We’ll bring in some builders, limestone from the east, and get gravel or better by next spring. In time, if sales are good enough, we might even be able to get a rail company to take interest!”

A _railroad_? Just how far in advance was this lunatic planning? Madara ran a hand through his hair and stared wordlessly at the proposal, still lying on the desk surface.

“Of course,” Hashirama laughed, eyes crinkling, “this is all assuming my family’s able to establish any kind of foothold here at all. It seems almost all of the nearby land’s either tied up in trusts or so deep in contracted disputes that it’ll never be back on the market!”

“That’s hardly stopped you so far,” Madara observed flatly.

“It hasn’t, has it?” Hashirama agreed. “But I’d rather not do business like that if I can afford it. Much better to work out a deal with you. Do things over the table!”

Madara impulsively let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Do things over the table?” he said with a mocking smile. “What do you think we make, here?”

Hashirama’s eyes widened guilelessly as he leaned forward. “Why, you make a delightful local brand of whiskey,” he said. “Under a special dispensation from the Konoha City Council.”

Madara stared at him. “The _what_?”

Hashirama blushed, leaning back in his chair. “Ah, haha! Do you like it? I was thinking –” he stood, suddenly, and Madara’s hand flew again to his knife. “– since you have all this land, and since we’re looking to formalize our presence in the area –” Hashirama looked like he dearly longed to pace as he spoke, but the size of the office constrained him to merely agitatedly shuffling in place, “– I understand it's _sudden_ , but – seeing you here, I just had the _grandest_ idea.”

Madara didn’t release the knife. “…Dare I ask?”

“My good sir, what if we made our _own_ city?” Hashirama grasped the back of his empty chair and bent down to look Madara in the eye. He was almost vibrating with excitement.

Madara realized his mouth had fallen open and shut it with a _click_. “Our own city,” he said. “Your brother suggested this?”

“Lord, no!” Hashirama stood upright and laughed, waving his hand dismissively. “Tobirama’s far too much of a… well, shall we say, _conventional_ thinker! I think it would just be marvelous. Your clan’s extensive enough to constitute a fair number of the population already, and I’m sure you have the connection with the local farmers – think about it! If these lands were united under a single township, we could work within the constraints of the law to create a business environment to accommodate both of our needs!”

“I’m sure you haven’t noticed, since you’re new here,” Madara said. “But my family has been doing _quite_ well as we are now. Inviting more governance here could not possible aid _us_ in any way – although I am well assured _you_ would benefit quite handsomely for it.”

“My dear friend,” Hashirama took his seat again and pulled it even _closer_ to Madara – their _knees_ were touching, by God – and continued, “I must impress upon you the weight of this opportunity. This land is in a crossroads! It’s a marvel it hasn’t been snapped up by a neighboring city already. Just think of it! Should you seize this opportunity now, it would give your family a deciding weight in the proceedings for years to come – whereas if you wait, someone else will surely come along and take it away from you all the same.”

“Someone like you, yes.”

“Exactly!” The insult slid right off of Hashirama’s broad shoulders. The man was utterly unperturbed, and that was just another thing ruining Madara’s evening. “Someone like me, with more money than sense, will surely come along and buy out every square foot of this region – and then, before you know it, they’re felling the forests and razing the fields to make way for their corporate interests along the coast!”

“I am getting very conflicting messages from you, Mr. Senju,” Madara said icily.

“Please, call me Hashirama! I insist.”

“ _Hashirama_ ,” the name tasted like lead in his mouth. “Are you, yourself, not beholden to these ‘corporate interests along the coast’? Are you, yourself, not here to ‘develop’ this land into something easily commodifiable?”

“I am, yes,” Hashirama’s dark brown eyes were intent on his face. “But the distinction must be made clear – though I am here for business, though I do indeed answer to my estimable father back in New York, I also have a strong desire to ensure that the livelihoods of the people in this region are not adversely affected as we develop this region! We have a personal connection, after all –” Madara’s eye narrowed sharply at this. “– the same would surely not be said about anyone else who would come to take my place, would it?”

Madara looked at Hashirama. He actually, really, looked. Then he set both feet flat on the floor and leaned forward. Hashirama seemed taken aback by this and straightened in his chair. Madara’s face was inches from his. “Why did you come here, tonight?” Madara asked. “I’m sure your most _excellent_ brother advised you against it. He’s the one who put that pistol on your hip, is he not?”

Hashirama had completely forgotten about the Remington. “Oh, yes!” he said, looking down at it.

“ _Why_ ,” Madara said. “Are you here? What did you hope to achieve tonight?” There was something challenging in his voice. Madara himself wasn’t even sure what it was he was really asking. Part of him knew that, no matter what Hashirama’s answer was, it would do him no satisfaction.

One of Hashirama’s hands fiddled with his shirtsleeve where it protruded from his coat. “I…” he began falteringly. “I wanted to discuss business! Like your letter said. And…”

Madara waited.

“… I wanted to see you?” Hashirama said, eyebrows furrowing as he looked down at the map. “I suppose I did, yes. I wanted to see you again. I wasn’t sure it _was_ you, mind! There’s surely more than one ‘M. Uchiha,’ isn’t there? It was really delightful to find that it actually _was_ you!” Hashirama’s beaming smile cut through the dim office once more.

“Delightful,” Madara repeated, leaning back in his chair. Sure enough, he felt even more irritation than before, although for the life of him he could not begin to identify its source. He drummed his fingers on the paper before him. Then, in a violent motion, he ripped it away from the desk surface and thrust it at Hashirama. “Take this,” he said flatly. “I have neither need nor desire to keep this in my office.”

“Oh, of course,” Hashirama said, accepting the paper with both hands. He stared at it for a moment, then folded it in sharp creases and tucked it into his jacket. “So…” he paused, looking briefly down at his knees. “What are your thoughts?”

“ _Regarding_?”

“My proposal!” Hashirama said. One of his legs began bouncing with nervous energy. “I made a good case, did I not?”

“That’s not the sort of thing you say to someone to whom you’re making such a proposal,” Madara snapped. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “I will… think on it. Expect my letter.”

“Oh, that’s just _wonderful_!” Hashirama lunged forward, and before Madara could stop him, seized him in another crushing hug. “I’m so _delighted_ we’ll be working together, Madara! I can’t wait to tell Tobirama –”

Madara finally gave into his baser instincts.

He stabbed him in the leg.

* * *

Tobirama stared at his brother, who was standing in the foyer of their new home. A rough bandage was wrapped around his right thigh, and his face was glowing with barely contained excitement. Tobirama, who had been on his way into the parlor to read and relax before retiring to his chambers for the evening, felt deeply weary.

“Tobirama,” Hashirama began, eyes alight.

Tobirama held up a hand, tucking his novel under his arm. He strode over to the servant’s bell and gave it a short tug. “We need to address your wound,” he said curtly, turning back towards the parlor. “Don’t bleed on the upholstery.”

“My wound? Oh, you mean this?” Hashirama laughed as he followed Tobirama through the archway. “This is nothing. Tobirama, I have most excellent news! Madara Uchiha’s agreed to work with us to incorporate these lands into a chartered city!”

Tobirama stopped dead, eyes on his armchair by the fireplace. He had been so, so close to having a pleasant day. “He’s agreed… to…”

“I think – and he agrees – that the most efficient way to establish a working base for the expansion of capitalistic enterprise in the region is to consolidate and formalize a government that would, inherently, be amenable to our goals!”

Hashirama was bouncing on the balls of his feet, seemingly completely unbothered by the red spots growing in the loosely wrapped bandage around his thigh.

A servant appeared at the door. “You rang, sir?”

“Mrs. Cooper, could you fetch us bandages and –”

“It’s fine, Tobirama, they dressed it at the warehouse –”

“Do you _want_ to get gangrene?” Tobirama demanded, one hand on his hip. He set his novel firmly on the table beside the chair. “Mrs. Cooper. Bandages and some sort of disinfectant. Thank you.”

The servant nodded briskly and left. Hashirama sniffed and crossed his arms as the clicking of her short heels receded down the long hallway.

“Do I want to know how you sustained such a wound during your _business_ _meeting_?” Tobirama asked. “Were you forced to make use of the pistol? Which I will take back, by the way.” He extended his hand expectantly.

“There wasn’t some dramatic shootout, if that’s what you’re imaging,” Hashirama said, rolling his eyes. He unbelted the holster and handed it to Tobirama. “It was a simple workplace accident. Madara was deeply apologetic about the whole affair.”

“I somehow find that hard to believe.” Tobirama slid the pistol out of the holster and snapped it open, surveying the rounds with a critical eye. Satisfied, he snapped it back shut and set it on the side table beside his book. “So, the two of you managed to not only reach some kind of accord – despite this so-called workplace accident – and you landed on a _city_ as the most appropriate way to achieve this?”

“Well,” Hashirama said, scratching at his chin. “If I am to be specific, Madara said he would ‘think about it.’ But that’s as good as saying yes, you know.”

“I most certainly do not know, brother.”

“Tobirama, please try to see things from my angle – this is objectively a good thing!” Hashirama said, stepping forward. Blood oozed through the bandages as he did so. Tobirama stared flatly at it, then looked at Hashirama. “ _Yes_ , I might have gotten a little stabbed. _Yes_ , Madara didn’t _exactly_ say yes – but! We _were_ spending thousands of dollars on _objectively_ terrible lots, and tonight I was able to initiate talks that would massively streamline future land acquisition in this are! How can you not call that progress?”

Tobirama sighed, and scratched at one of his sideburns. Where was Mrs. Cooper? He was growing more concerned about Hashirama’s leg by the minute. “I suppose I could call that progress,” he admitted. “But if every scrap of civility we are to have with Madara Uchiha must be carved out of your flesh, then I would _strongly_ suggest that we look for civility elsewhere.”

“You’re just being dramatic, Tobirama. He _did_ apologize.”

Mrs. Cooper knocked politely on the door, basket of bandages and ointment in her arms. Hashirama let himself be led away with a final call of, “Just think on it, brother!”

Tobirama sank into his chair and stared at the empty fireplace like it would give him answers. The cold metal grate remained unforthcoming.


	5. Chapter 5

_Be careful for nothing; but in every thing by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God._ _And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding through the Blessed Sharingan of God, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus. - Philippians 4:6-7_

“’Shoot him in his fucking face,’ you’d said?” Hikaku said from the doorway.

Madara didn’t move. He was lying face down on his bed.

“I take it he looks a little different than he did when you were children?” Hikaku continued, throwing the door wide. The light from the oil lamp on the office desk did little to penetrate the gloom of the room beyond.

“Go away.”

“I can’t. We’re ready for you to sign off on the next run.”

“Sod the next run.”

“Should we be planning for an assault by the Pinkertons? Or should I send Mr. Senju an offer of employment instead?”

“Oh, go _fuck_ yourself, Hikaku,” Madara snarled into the bedspread.

“I’ll let everyone know they can go home for the night,” Hikaku said with palpable amusement. He left the door open as he walked back into the warehouse.

Madara’s treacherous mind kept replaying the sensations of being pulled into Hashirama’s arms; of Hashirama’s hand on his knee; of the way his deep voice sent reverberations straight down to –

Madara felt ill. He should’ve stabbed him in the chest. God, a chest like that, would his knife have even gone through? The neck, then. That space under this jaw, where the warm, soft skin disappeared behind his collar –

Madara was familiar with the concept of homosexuality, if not the clinical symptoms. He was dimly aware that the church was against it – which did not matter to him in the slightest – and that people could get in a lot of trouble if they went bandying it about. But then again, Madara could just as easily get in trouble for the moonshine, or his many, many instances of aggravated assault. Not to mention the murder and attempted arson. Madara spared a brief thought to what his family might think, then remembered that his uncle Tsukano had married a literal pig, and decided he didn’t _care_ what his family might think.

If it had just been men in general, Madara wouldn’t have had an issue, he decided. The issue arose in that this new perversion seemed to be fixated, completely and utterly, on Hashirama _fucking_ Senju.

* * *

It may have been almost 10pm, but Hashirama was full of a nervous energy that he couldn’t seem to dispel. It was… really, really nice to see Madara again! Hashirama hadn’t realized quite how acutely he’d missed his old friend. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t made any other friends in the interim, either – he had a number of acquaintances back in New York that were no doubt awaiting a letter from him. But something about seeing Madara just…

Madara looked good! Very good! Healthy! His wild, coarse black hair was almost as long as Hashirama’s own, at this point, which was a delightful surprise. The wiry-limbed child from his memories had grown into an adult, with sleek, powerful limbs and deep, bottomless black eyes.

Hashirama was in his room, laying half-dressed and face-up in his bed, trying very hard not to pace and further agitate his bandages. Mrs. Cooper had been very strict in her instructions to lay in the bed and let it heal – but Mrs. Cooper was almost as fussy as Tobirama, and Hashirama could barely even feel it, anyway. The knife hadn’t even been one of Madara’s longer ones!

Hashirama was suddenly intruded upon by the memory of how Madara’s hair smelled like pipe smoke and copper. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sucked in a deep breath. No point trying to sleep when he had this much energy! He wasn’t tired at all.

He remembered Ms. Jameson asking about for more firewood the other day, and pulled on his pants. They might have enough now, but it never hurt to have _more_. Besides, lying around all night wasn’t going to make his wound heal any faster!

* * *

_H. Senju –_

_Our last meeting left me with much to consider. I remain unconvinced that these bounties you so assure me would flow from the creation of such a city would benefit my clan enough to warrant the cost, the risk, or the effort. Even so, I have directed Hikaku Uchiha, my cousin, to make inquiries amongst my family as to the effect. Let it not be said I am an unreasonable man. Expect a letter._

_M.U._

* * *

_My dear Madara,_

_I cannot describe how glad I am to hear that you are giving such consideration to the matter we discussed. My brother, Tobirama, has suggested several items concerning this endeavor; I prevailed upon him to draft them into a list such that he might submit them for your consideration. He has done so, after much deliberation, and has directed me to append them to this letter. It is my hope that you are not overly dismayed by the weight or thickness of the envelope, and manage to make time to peruse these points, as I believe he has identified several aspects of the city-planning process that we both overlooked in our brief meeting._

_I dearly hope to hear from you soon! Our family has hired contractors to begin construction on our brewery, in the lands near the broad cliff face. Does such a feature have a name in local custom? The maps only refer to it as UL-733B, which is most difficult upon the tongue._

_Kind regards,_

_Hashirama_

* * *

_H. Senju –_

_My time is precious. If your brother has considerations to bring to my attention, he can do so at my warehouse, in person. Hikaku is still waiting to hear back from several families in the east, but the prevailing attitude seems to be amenable to your proposition. The cliff face is called “A Bad Place For A Stupid Brewery_ _.” A shocking coincidence, now that I think of it._

_Regards,_

_M.U._

* * *

_Mr. M Uchiha,_

_My brother has informed me that the proposal for a so-called city in the region has been more or less accepted by your clan. If this is the case, it would behoove us to proceed in a logical fashion and hire lawyers to draft the initial contract, wherein we may negotiate to the best of our respective interests. Your business primarily consumes cornmeal, as I understand it. Ours will need grain. These sorts of things will need to be worked out in the next few weeks. Once we have established a basis of understanding for how properties will be held, divided, bought, and sold, we may want to impose limits on who may or may not establish businesses or fund new construction in the area. I, myself, have already sent for a lawyer familiar with these matters, who is known to our family and has done exemplary work for us before. I trust you will see fit to follow suit._

_Cordially,_

_T. Senju_

* * *

_Hashirama_ _–_

_Kindly thank your brother for me for the letters. The paper is excellent quality, and I have been using them as kindling for the stove. The Uchiha clan will not need to hire any kind of outside lawyers. We have people for that sort of thing._

_There’s a bar on the main road north. We can meet there on Friday to further discuss these matters. Your brother may bring his lawyer, if it will make him feel better._

_M._

* * *

_My dear Madara,_

_Is this the same building that stands across from the church, on the road near the river? If this is indeed the case, I’m afraid my brother will be unable to attend our meeting. He has been banned from the establishment after decrying it as a ‘den of iniquity.’_ _I, however, will certainly be able to attend!_

_I look forward to seeing you again._

_Warm regards,_

_Hashirama_

* * *

Madara stared down at the letter in his hand for a long moment, then snorted and crumpled it into a ball. “If Tobirama Senju thinks _that_ bar’s a den of iniquity, I fear he may be in the wrong business.”

“The Red Grass Saloon?” Kuro asked from under one of the boilers. “He thinks _that’s_ a den of iniquity?” There was a loud clang and he cursed sharply.

Madara dropped down into a crouch. “Careful,” he said. “The hotplate in this one’s heavier than the others.”

“I _know_ , I just – _fuck_ –” Another clang.

Madara rolled his eyes and straightened, looking out over the warehouse. It’d been a good season for Sharingan Breweries so far. Senju invasion aside, their regular customers were thirstier than ever. If this trend kept up through the fall, Madara was considering making a business offer to their Italian friends in the north. But that was just speculation at this point.

Things had been… a little off ever since Hashirama’s visit to the warehouse. Half his family was either refusing to meet his gaze or watching him like a hawk. Tomiko hadn’t looked at him all week, whereas Madara all but couldn’t rid himself of Nezumi. She clung to him like a barnacle, like she expected him to start performing tricks at any moment.

“Hey, Kuro.” Madara knelt down again and grabbed the hotplate before it fell for the third time.

Kuro squirmed until he could peer at him from beneath the boiler. “What’s up, boss?”

“Why are people suddenly avoiding me?”

Kuro’s face turned several interesting shades of puce.

Madara watched it cycle through the colors like a kaleidoscope, then sighed and shook his head. “Nevermind,” he said. “Forget I asked.”

Kuro took the edge of the hotplate from him and, in an uncharacteristically delicate tone, said, “They’re just… anxious… about the effect the new Senju brewery will have on the business.”

Madara stared him in the eyes for a long minute. “I thought Fumiko raised you to be a better liar.”

“Yeah, and I thought you weren’t a –” Kuro’s mouth snapped shut and his face blanched.

Madara suddenly understood everything. He shifted from the crouch so that one of his knees touched the warehouse floor, and bent low over the visible sliver of Kuro’s face. His long hair brushed the ground. He said, very calmly, “A _what,_ Kuro?”

“Boss, I didn’t mean anything by it –” Kuro pushed himself out from under the boiler and sat up, spinning to face Madara. “– I’m being dead honest, it’s _fine_ , I don’t care –”

“Care about _what_ , Kuro?” Madara said through gritted teeth. “Say it. Fucking tell me, Kuro, what’s so ‘ _fine’?_ ”

The activity in the warehouse slowed to a halt.

“Mr. Madara,” Hikaku said, breaking the silence. “Can you come sign this for me, please?”

Madara shoved off of the boiler with enough force that it made the bolts creak. Kuro stared after him with large round eyes as he weaved through the clusters of crates and tables.

“Mr. Madara,” Hikaku said quietly to him as he accepted the clipboard. “Please try to –”

Madara’s pen scratched violently on the paper. “Don’t fucking start with me, Hikaku,” he said, equally quietly. He could feel the eyes of his cousins on his back. “Have Yozora help Kuro with that boiler. He’s going to get his teeth knocked in if he keeps trying to lift it on his own.” He handed the clipboard back to Hikaku with a clipped motion and then beelined for his office, slamming the door behind him.

Nezumi crawled over the floor towards Kuro. “ _Let me know if you want to change your bet_ ,” she whispered loudly.


	6. Chapter 6

_Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favour in our Lord’s Eternal Eyes. - Proverbs 18:22_

_My dear Madara_ ,

Hashirama stared at the words on the page, feeling at a loss.

It had been almost two months since the town planning committee had begun to draw up plans for the proposed settlement. Things were going well! The area they would demarcate as the town center already held several buildings and roads, which made it an ideal location; it also provided easy access to the river, the woods, and the main road north.

The land settlements were going well – Tobirama and Mr. Hikaku Uchiha were negotiating some complicated system of leases for the surrounding farmland, one that would allow them to grow each of their respective crops without straining the farms overmuch. The lands would continue to be held under the Uchiha name, but they would be leased to the Senju, who would then lease it down to the farmers.

It was a complicated system, and Hashirama had dutifully listened to Tobirama explain it for twenty minutes after dinner one night before deciding that his attentions were better spent on other endeavors. Mostly, Hashirama found himself working on projects about town – helping Mrs. Kazumi Uchiha repair her porch, or hauling lumber for a new bridge. Tobirama complained, of course, saying that he was doing the work of ‘men below his station,’ but Tobirama complained about everything – physical labors were good for the soul!

Hashirama rubbed along the bridge of his nose and tapped the end of his pen against the desk. He wanted to write to Madara, but he was having trouble thinking up a decent excuse. Madara’s time was precious, as he had said before! The fact that Hashirama hadn’t seen him for two weeks certainly wasn’t justification enough to bother the man. It wasn’t like he _missed_ him, he just… wanted to know what he was up to! How the moonshine was coming… things like that.

Hashirama lowered the pen to the paper and immediately lifted it again. He ran his tongue over the edges of his teeth, then pushed the paper aside, grabbing a fresh sheet and beginning anew.

_Dear Father,_

_It has taken me some time to respond to your latest letter, and for this I apologize. I am sure Tobirama has written to you independently of my own correspondence; he is very assiduous with keeping up with his letters, a most admirable trait. I can only endeavor to follow in his footsteps, in this, as in many other things._

_You will be pleased to hear that construction on the brewery is proceeding well. Our builders have the foundation cleared and have begun shipping in bricks from Saint Louis; costly though it is, given the sparse roads and even sparser rails in this area, I do hold that it will be a worthwhile expense._

_We have made a most fortuitous connection to a prominent local family upon our arrival. This area was heretofore unclaimed by any of the surrounding counties through a, truthfully, quite_ bizarre _cartographical error – as such, Tobirama and I have started making motions to incorporate these regions into a consolidated township! Our main goals at the moment are the establishment of such services of convenience that will aid our business, such as access to the rail, the post, and, in time, perhaps even the new electrical grid. Would that we had some way to access the coast! We would be able to distribute our liquor around the whole world by next June!_

_Jests aside, our efforts here are already producing fruit. We have been able to acquire several handsome plots of land and have worked out a most beneficial leasing agreement for the rest; in the coming year we will be able to begin sowing wheat and barley in addition to the local favorite, corn._

_I look forward to hearing of your exploits in New York. Please give my regards to Toka if you see her._

_Your son,_

_H. Senju_

Hashirama read over the letter, and, satisfied with its contents, creased it sharply and fished a stamp out of the desk drawer. Then he pulled the first sheet of paper back towards him.

_My dear Madara,_

_How are you? Have you been busy? We should meet up for a drink some time!_

Hashirama paused, and squinted at the letter. Was that a normal way to say it? He felt oddly discombobulated, like all the social rules he’d known in New York no longer applied out in this wilderness. How did one strike up a friendship with a man like Madara Uchiha?

He crumpled up the paper and pulled out a new sheet.

_M_

Was saying “My dear Madara” too much? He’d written it on letters before, and Madara hadn’t corrected him… but Madara also hadn’t tried to contact him for two weeks, either. Maybe it _was_ too much.

_Mr. Uchiha,_

The words looked very stiff and formal at the top of the page, but Hashirama was tired of wasting paper. It would have to do.

_Mr. Uchiha,_

_How have you been these past two weeks?_ _The work on our brewery is proceeding well. I hope business has been steady for your family – the influx of workers must be driving the sales at a steady clip!_

Hashirama paused, then set the pen down and groaned out loud, pressing his eyes into the heels of his palms. Why was this so _hard_? Just ask him to come to dinner! That’s all he needed to do! That’s a normal thing friends do, right? Everybody needs to eat!

Like Hercules wrestling the Nemean Lion, he picked up the pen again.

_Tobirama and I would love to have you come over for dinner sometime soon._

_Yours,_

_Hashirama_

* * *

Butsuma’s response came faster than Madara’s – which is to say, Butsuma responded, and Madara did not. Hashirama tried not to feel disappointed at this. Madara was a busy man! He knew as well as anyone the amount of time it took to run a business, let alone lead a clan, too.

He was eating breakfast a month after his letter was sent when a knock sounded on the front door. One of the servants materialized out of the back kitchen and answered. Hashirama couldn’t hear the low exchange from the dining room. He sat back in his chair and took a long sip of coffee.

“Mr. Hashirama,” the servant said. “Letters for you and Mr. Tobirama. Should I put them in your offices?”

“Thank you, John! I’ll take mine. You can put Tobirama’s on his desk.” Hashirama accepted the thin, white envelope with a cheery smile. The servant vanished down the main hallway as he broke the seal.

Hashirama did not have a bad relationship with his father. Not at all! His father was a captain of industry, a powerful man with powerful goals. He’d sent them both to college on his own dime, after all; raised and fed and clothed them with no expectation but that they carry on the family name and take over his business when the time came. Hashirama might not have had much in _common_ with his father at the end of the day, but he could say with certainty that he loved and respected him, as any good son would.

That didn’t stop his stomach from dropping as he read the letter.

 _Dear Hashirama,_ it began in his father’s precise handwriting.

_It is good to hear that business is going well. I am pleased with the progress you and your brother have made. I would not have thought of a township as the most efficient means of achieving your goals, but from the sound of it, it seems you are already well down this path, so to try and dissuade you at this point would be a wasted effort._

_There is something you mentioned in your letter that I can assist with, however. I have a contact down in Louisiana; a man by the name of Ashina Uzumaki. He owns a vast shipping network, and has a system of distribution chains that stretch from the coast all the way to your rural location. He also has an as-of-yet unmarried daughter by the name of Mito Uzumaki_ _._

_The solution to both of our predicaments seemed quite obvious, and so he and I have already come into an arrangement. You will marry his daughter_ _, and in return he has agreed to give us full, discounted access to every one of his companies from here to the Gulf of Mexico._

_By the time you receive this letter, Miss Uzumaki will already be on her way to your location. You can probably expect her arrival in two weeks or so. Toka is doing well._

_Regards,_

_B. Senju_

Hashirama’s eyes remained fixated on the words “marry his daughter” written in neat black letters.

Tobirama entered the dining room and stopped short. “Good morning,” he said. It sounded like a question. He took two hesitant steps towards the dining table and stopped again. “Hashirama?”

“Good morning,” Hashirama said numbly. He set the letter down next to his plate. His fingers did not tremble. “The mail came. I told John to put yours on your desk.”

“I saw that,” Tobirama said, finally drawing up a chair and taking a seat. He was watching Hashirama stare at his half-full plate of eggs through concerned eyes. “Any news from our father?” he asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

Hashirama wordlessly handed him the letter. Tobirama accepted it and took a long draught of coffee as his eyes scanned the page.

Then, after a long moment, he said, “I see.” He set the letter down by Hashirama’s own coffee, now cold. “I suppose… congratulations are in order?”

“I would suppose so,” Hashirama said.

“It was going to happen sooner or later, brother,” Tobirama said, looking at him piercingly.

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t know, Tobirama,” Hashirama picked up a piece of toast and smiled brightly at it. It felt unnatural on his face. “This is a good thing! I’m excited to meet my – my bride.”

Tobirama didn’t say anything. He pulled a plate towards him and served himself a spoonful of eggs.

Hashirama dropped the toast back onto his plate and stood, dusting off the front of his pants. “I’m going for a walk,” he announced briskly. “I might go see how construction’s proceeding on our brewery!”

“Have fun,” Tobirama said flatly. “I’m going to stay here and balance our checkbooks. Let me know if you buy anything.”

“Of course, little brother,” Hashirama said, amused.

The morning air was already warm. Hashirama whistled jauntily to himself as he strolled through the iron gates to their property, eyes tracing the dents and scrapes left by the bullets. He should see if Madara wanted to go hunting with him sometime! Half-formed ideas and plans occupied his thoughts as he wandered down the long dirt road.

* * *

There was a train cutting through the southern border of Arkansas. On this train was a car, and in that car sat twenty women, all finely dressed in silks, gauze, and velvet. Amidst this crowd, but set quite definitely apart from it – almost presiding over it – sat Mito Uzumaki. Her long red hair curled around her ears and over her temple, swept up into two buns; her bright brown eyes shone from her smooth, pale face. She looked like a Greek goddess, descended from her plinth to grace the mortal world with her presence.

She was also sobbing.

“It’ll be alright, Miss. Mito,” one of her friends – attendants? – said soothingly, rubbing her back.

“He always _does_ this!” Mito wept into a cotton handkerchief. “He didn’t even _ask_! No, ‘Mito, do you _want_ to be shipped off to the sticks? Mito, would you _like_ to go marry some country bumpkin?’ No! It’s only ever, ‘Mito, go do this,’ ‘Mito, go live here’ –” She resumed sobbing with renewed intensity.

“If it’s any consolation, Miss,” one of her other friends interjected, leaning forward in a rustle of silks, “it could be worse. You’re engaged to Hashirama Senju! Everyone knows he’s a gentleman. And he’s not poor, so you won’t be living in a shack.”

“But it’s not _New Orleans_ ,” Mito said, voice breaking. “I won’t have any friends there! Even if _he’s_ decent, I’ll still be living in – in – _hog_ country!”

Her friends exchanged sympathetic glances. She wasn’t wrong.

“And I’ll be _married_ ,” she continued, waving the handkerchief as if to illustrate her point, “which means no more outings, no more parties – no more _adventures_! My life will be – it’ll be _knitting_ and – oh god, I’ll be expected to have a _child_ –” She started crying again.

“But, Mito,” one of her friends said, tilting her head. The feathers on her hat swayed with the rocking of the train. “Didn’t you always say you wanted to be a mother?”

“Yes, in – in _five years_! Or longer!” Mito exclaimed. She scrubbed at her face with the sodden handkerchief. The woman at her side silently replaced it with a fresh one from her purse when Mito wasn’t looking. “I’m an _heiress_. Do you know what childbirth does to you? It’s _horrible_. I’ll get _fat_ , I’ll be _ugly_ , no one will ever want me again –”

“But you’ll be married!” The first friend said encouragingly. “So it won’t matter if you’ll be fat or ugly, because you’ll already have a husband –”

“ _Rosalie_ ,” hissed another from across the car. “That’s _enough_! Can’t you see she’s suffering?”

Mito flung herself back into the cushions. “My life is over,” she proclaimed with all seriousness, tear-streaked face cast despondently towards the window. “At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Senju himself turns out to be an ass.”

“If he is, we’ll poison him for you, sweetheart.”

“Doesn’t he have a brother?”

“Yes, but he’s _actually_ an ass.”

“I’m not ready to get married,” Mito cried, burying her face in her hands.

* * *

Hashirama was sitting on a rock next to a lovely little stream, quietly having the exact same crisis as Mito.

The sun was warm overhead. Hashirama had discarded his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, and at this point was contemplating removing his waistcoat as well. Was he actually hot, or was he sweating out of nervousness? Why was he nervous? His bride wasn’t even _here_ yet.

God. His _bride_.

For everything that Hashirama knew – which wasn’t _much_ – Mito Uzumaki was a delightful young woman, well-schooled and well-read, vivacious and lively and much adored in social circles in New Orleans.

She was going to _hate_ it here. She was going to hate _him_.

Hashirama drummed his fingers on his knees and bounced his leg erratically as he stared at the tiny stream. He felt like he was being punished for something, though he had no idea why. He was engaged! That’s a happy thing!

“– and then he told her to go clean herself off!” came a chattering voice from behind him. It was alarmingly close.

Hashirama all but leapt off the rock and wheeled around to stare at the bushes. How had he not heard anyone approaching?

Two women materialized out of nowhere, carrying wide baskets of laundry. Their coarse black hair was piled high on their heads. One of them, a small, weedy girl with sharp buck teeth, was still talking.

“There’s no way he’s interested, I mean, if _Sachiko_ throws herself at you and you don’t react, you’re either dead inside, or –”

The two finally saw Hashirama. There was an awkward moment of silence.

“Hello, Mr. Senju!” The girl with buck teeth unceremoniously dropped her basket, sending clothes all over the ground. She stepped over it and seized his hand, pumping it twice. “It’s good to see you again!” Her grip was shockingly strong. “It’s great, actually!”

“Nezumi, for god’s sake,” said the other girl. She stooped down and began collecting the fallen clothes.

“I’m – sorry, have we met?” Hashirama asked blankly. She looked familiar, but –

“The warehouse!” Nezumi’s grin broadened. “I work at the warehouse with Mr. _Madara_.”

For some reason, the emphasis she put on Madara’s name sent shivers down Hashirama’s spine. “Oh,” he said, pulling his hand away. “Well, in that case, it’s a pleasure to see you again, Miss… Uchiha?”

The other girl snorted. “Call her Nezumi. She’s about as far from ‘miss’ as you can get.”

Nezumi laughed broadly, showing every single one of her teeth. “I’m absolutely a ‘Miss’! Mr. Senju, I _insist_ you call me ‘Miss Uchiha’!” She took two flouncing steps back to her fallen basket and bowed in a flourishing curtsy.

“My name’s Tomiko,” the other girl said, staring at Hashirama flatly. “Tomiko Uchiha.”

Hashirama suddenly felt very underdressed, despite the fact that both of the women before him were wearing plain clothes. “Uh,” he floundered for something to say. “How – uh, how is Madara?”

For some reason, the question made Nezumi erupt into snorting giggles.

Tomiko flushed bright scarlet. “ _He’s fine,_ ” she squeaked.

Hashirama furrowed his brow. “Oh,” he said. “I was just wondering, because – well, I haven’t seen him for a while, and – he’s fine?”

Nezumi was stifling wheezing laughter as she bent down to collect her fallen basket. She looked up at Tomiko with what Hashirama could only describe as a triumphant expression. “You hear that, Tomiko? Mr. Senju hasn’t seen Mr. Madara in a _while._ ”

“Did something happen?” Hashirama asked blankly. Why was she laughing at him? Why did the other girl look so embarrassed?

Tomiko regained control of herself and kicked Nezumi sharply in the leg. “Mr. Madara is fine, Mr. Senju,” she said firmly. “We’ve all just been busy, that’s all.”

“Of course, of course,” Hashirama said, fidgeting with his shirtsleeve. A thought occurred to him. “By the way, could you pass him a message for me?”

“Of _course_ ,” Nezumi said, eyes blazingly bright.

“I’ll be getting married soon! Well, not _soon_ , but… within the month, probably. I would – it would –” Hashirama cleared his throat. “Madara’s welcome to attend! As well as anyone from your clan, that is. It probably won’t be a huge affair, but I just thought…” He trailed off.

Both of the women were staring at him with expressions ranging from disappointment to outright betrayal.

“Who is she?” Nezumi demanded, balancing her basket on her hip. “What’s her name? How did you meet? Is she beautiful? What color is her hair?”

“What color is her – what?” Hashirama said, completely blindsided.

“Her _hair_ ,” Nezumi said. “What color is her _hair_? Is it black?”

“I have no idea,” Hashirama said.

Tomiko’s mouth twisted. “How could you not know? Haven’t you met her?”

“No.”

There was a dumb silence.

“ _No?_ ” Nezumi all but shrieked. “You’re throwing it all away from some _hussy_ you’ve never even _met_ –”

Tomiko’s basket fell on the ground with a clatter as she covered Nezumi’s mouth with both hands. “I am so very, _deeply_ sorry, Mr. Senju –” she babbled as she dragged the other woman backwards, towards the thick underbrush. “– Nezumi’s just been feeling very ill these past few days, I really must get her back home, I’ll pass along your message to Mr. Madara –”

And then they were gone, and Hashirama was left alone with the fallen basket and scattered clothes. He stood there in a stupor for a minute, processing what had just happened. Did… did that woman just call his fiancée a _hussy_? Should he be offended? He didn’t _feel_ very offended. She’d clearly been speaking from some place of passion – which only begged the question why this near-stranger was so invested in his love life. 

Hashirama bent down to upright the basket, and began to pile the clothes back into it. No sense standing by and letting their things get wet, after all. After a moment’s consideration, he picked it up and set it securely on the rock where he’d been sitting.

Then he rolled down his shirtsleeves, buttoned the cuffs, slid his jacket back over his shoulders, and walked away.


	7. Chapter 7

_And Jesus went into the temple of God, and using his mighty Susano’o did cast out all them that sold and bought in the temple, and overthrew the tables of the moneychangers, and the seats of them that sold doves. - Matthew 21:12_

The hooves thundered like the pistons of a combustion engine as Madara’s horse tore over the field. The fence rose in front of them like one of the walls of Jericho – the grassy plain before them fell away, and suddenly, for one, glorious moment, Madara was soaring through the air. The horse landed like a meteor and they were again thundering across the open plain. The horse’s mane whipped through the air; Madara let out a wild laugh as adrenaline sang through his blood.

A shrill whistle pierced the air. Madara turned his head to squint back at the farmhouse – someone was waving at him from the front porch.

“Five fucking minutes,” Madara grumbled, wheeling the horse around. “Can’t step away for five _fucking_ minutes.”

“Mr. Madara!” It was Nezumi. She ran out to meet him, hair in disarray. “Mr. Madara, I have horrible news!”

“What happened?” Madara said urgently, dismounting the horse. He threw the reins to Kaito and began walking swiftly back towards the house, Nezumi nipping at his heels. “Is it the warehouse? Did the Pinkertons find us?”

“No, no –” Nezumi actually grabbed his arm and wheeled him about to face her. Madara, stunned, didn’t have time to react before she continued, breathless. “Mr. Madara, I’m so – I tried to stop him, but Tomiko –”

“What happened to Tomiko? Is anyone _injured_?” Madara snapped impatiently, pulling Nezumi’s hands off his clothes.

“It’s – it’s Mr. Senju, he –” Fat tears welled up in her eyes. “He’s getting _married_ , Mr. Madara.”

Oh. “Oh.” Madara suddenly felt very tired. “Why, exactly, did I need to know this?” He sat on the porch with a _thump_.

Uninvited, Nezumi collapsed dramatically at his side. “I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you, Mr. Madara,” she sniffled. To her credit, Madara wasn’t even sure if they were fake tears or not.

“Nezumi,” Madara said. “I don’t care.”

All the sniffling ceased immediately. Nezumi lunged forwards, black eyes staring piercingly into his own. “Why not?”

Madara shoved her aside. “What do you mean, why not?” He stood again, putting space between himself and the woman frowning at him from the stoop. “What should it matter to me what he does?”

“Because,” Nezumi said, face suddenly empty of any emotion. “I know where her train is, and we still have that dynamite left over that the Wilkersons traded to us.”

Madara stared at her flatly. “No.”

“But _Mr. Madara_ ,” Nezumi whined petulantly, sliding back into her act. “How are you gonna have a chance if he’s already taken with some nameless whore?”

Madara stepped forward and rested one hand on the porch railing. He bent down until his face was level with Nezumi’s. “Nezumi, my dear cousin.” His other hand came up to rest on her shoulder. Nezumi’s eyes were huge, and she went very still. “If I hear you make _one more_ insinuation about this – if you talk to _one more_ person about this topic – I’m going to throw you down the dry well near Tanaka’s farm and _nail it shut_. Understand?”

“I understand, Mr. Madara.” Nezumi’s face was blank and expressionless again. She cocked her head and stared up at him through the tangle of her hair. “Just so you know, he misses you.”

Madara’s grip on her shoulder tightened. Nezumi’s blank expression didn’t change.

“Hey, boss!” Kuro was walking towards them, waving a letter. “Hikaku says the sugar came in!”

“Excellent,” Madara called back, releasing his grip as he stood upright. “Tell him to go ahead and disburse it as necessary. I want at least three batches before the week’s out.”

Kuro nodded, turning back towards the barn.

Madara looked down at Nezumi. “This isn’t going to be a problem, is it, Nezumi?”

Nezumi stood and smoothed down her skirts. “No, sir. Your business is your business.”

“I know about your little bets,” Madara said, angling his shoulder so that he blocked her path. “You’re going to give everyone their money back, and all this talk is going to _cease_.”

“There wouldn’t be talk if you hadn’t looked at him like that,” Nezumi shot back, sudden anger steeling her frame. “If you’re so sure nothing’ll happen, why not make a bet yourself? Bet against yourself. I think you’re a coward, Mr. Madara.”

“I swear to _God_ , Nezumi, someday I will put a bullet in your brain.” Madara ran a hand through his hair, mouth twisting in disgust. He pulled out his wallet with sharp, jerking motions, and handed her a five dollar bill.

Nezumi suddenly laughed, bright and clear. She pulled him into a spine-cracking hug. “I love you, too, cousin!” She took the money and stuffed it down her front, pausing only to admire the print. “This is a lot of money! You must feel pretty confident.”

Madara rolled his eyes. “What’s the time limit?”

“What, so you can cheat?”

“How could I even cheat?” Madara demanded. “I’m going to do my fucking job, and Hashirama Senju’s going to get married. You shouldn’t have let me make a bet in the first place!”

Nezumi had the gall to wink at him. “I don’t know, cousin,” she sang, skipping backwards. “Because at least _one_ of our family members put down _six_ dollars on the _other_ outcome!”

Madara stared at her. “Exactly how much money is at play here?”

Nezumi smiled. It was the smile of a fox finding an unlocked henhouse, or a tax collector stumbling upon an undeclared moonshine business. “But foolish and unlearned questions avoid, knowing that they do gender strifes,” she intoned gravely. “Second Timothy, chapter 2, verse 23.”

“Are you quoting the Bible at me?” Madara asked. “You, of all people?”

“I am but a devout follower of our Lord Jesus Christ, with his all-seeing sharingan,” Nezumi said, continuing to back away.

“No, you’re not,” Madara said, rubbing at his eyes. He shoved past her and stomped up the short stairs towards the farmhouse door.

* * *

“The Lord bless you and keep you; The Lord make His face shine upon you, and be gracious to you; The Lord lift up His countenance upon you, and give you peace.” Zechariah Small’s reedy voice rang out through the mostly-empty church.

“Amen,” Tobirama intoned from the front row.

“Amen,” Hashirama said with him, head bowed.

Aside from them, Mrs. Cooper and her sons, and their other servants, the church was empty.

Zechariah came down from his podium and shook Hashirama’s hand, then Tobirama’s. Sweat glistened faintly on his brow. “I must say, Mr. Tobirama, Mr. Hashirama,” he said. “Things have been a good deal livelier for our little church since you and yours came into town.”

Tobirama frowned sharply. “I take it our good friends the _Uchihas_ don’t see fit to honor the Lord on his day. They’ve nary set a foot in this building in the whole time we’ve lived here.”

“Oh, they will,” Zechariah said, frowning back. “Their… service… well, the only service they attend is on Christmas Eve.”

“Is that so?” Hashirama asked, cocking his head. “Must be a struggle for them to get the clan together, like that. Not that I condone that sort of behavior,” he added hastily at Tobirama’s glare.

“Be that as it may,” Zechariah said. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and daubed at his brow. “Mr. Hashirama, you mentioned you had a wedding coming up? My congratulations. You’ll be having the ceremony here?”

“Yes,” Tobirama said. 

“When should we begin making the preparations?” Zechariah asked, tucking away the handkerchief.

“His fiancée should be arriving within the week,” Tobirama said. “So, I would assume within the following week. We will, of course, inform you the day she arrives.”

“Excellent, excellent.” The pastor nodded, rubbing his hands together. “This is so exciting. There’s been so little activity for a clergyman in these parts, given the… unique spiritual habits of the locals, so to be able to officiate a good, _Christian_ wedding will be a lovely change of pace!”

“It’ll be a quiet ceremony, Mr. Small,” Hashirama said. “Nothing too exciting.”

Zechariah winked and nodded. “Of course,” he said, as if sharing a secret with them. “Nothing compared to the weddings you folk were no doubt used to back on the coast!”

Hashirama smiled tightly at him.

“Mr. Small, if I could have a moment of your time,” Tobirama suddenly interjected, moving around the end of the pew and withdrawing a tightly folded packet of papers from his jacket. “I would like to ask you about the demarcation in lots UL-3445 and UL-3445B – there seems to be an irregularity between these maps –”

Good old Tobirama. Always there for Hashirama when he needed him most. He slipped around the edge of the sanctuary, smiling at Mrs. Cooper and her sons as he passed by.

There was a gentle breeze waiting for Hashirama outside the church when he finally made it through the solid oak doors. It was no less sweltering, but inside the building the air had been stagnant and punishingly humid.

The church was set a half acre back from the main road, surrounded by a thin iron fence and well-trimmed bushes. There were four other buildings within view, in this tiny patch of ground that was to become the nexus of the City of Konoha. Three of the buildings were homes, as Hashirama had eventually come to discover – small, but in relatively good repair, with painted shutters and red brick chimneys. The other building, situated directly opposite the church across the road, was the Red Grass Saloon.

Hashirama lingered at the iron gate encircling the church property for a long minute.

He just needed a moment. Some time away from – from who? Tobirama? Hashirama just wanted to be able to sit and _not_ think about his upcoming marriage for a minute. That’s all. And Tobirama had been banned from the Saloon, so…

It wasn’t like he was going to _drink_ anything. That meant it wasn’t a sin, right? Hashirama relentlessly quashed his guilt as he crossed the dirt road in long strides.

* * *

Madara was… enjoying himself. He was reasonably sure that that was what he was doing – he was smiling, and it wasn’t forced, or predatory; he had a beer open next to him that actually tasted like something other than moonshine; he was in the middle of a casual game of stabscotch, and he could _taste_ the sweat beading at his opponent’s brow.

Yes, Madara was fairly sure that, all-in-all, he was having a good time, which is why it made it all the worse when Hashirama Senju walked through the saloon doors. His opponent – he didn’t know his name, he wasn’t an Uchiha, so Madara didn’t really care – looked up at the wrong moment and fumbled, cutting his finger with a pained yelp.

Madara’s eyes were fixed on Hashirama. He walked in through the saloon doors like a child returning to their room after a scolding; shoulders uncharacteristically hunched, eyes darting around the corners of the bar like he was sure someone was about to throw him out.

The only people in the bar were Ed Beckett, the bartender, Madara’s stabscotch opponent, and the dozen-or-so Uchihas filling the rest of the room. One of them, Sachiko, was plunking at the keys on the out-of-tune piano in the corner.

Hashirama’s eyes landed on Madara, and the sun came out from behind the clouds. “Oh, Madara!” he exclaimed in a breathy voice.

Every Uchiha in the bar turned to look at them.

Madara’s opponent excused himself, fumbling for his handkerchief – Madara let him go. Without looking away from Hashirama, his hand wrapped again around the knife.

How long had it been since they’d last met? A month? A little over a month, maybe.

Hashirama was wearing his Sunday best, but as he walked into the bar, he loosened his tie and pulled his jacket off of his shoulders, throwing it over the back of the now-vacated chair across from Madara. “What are you drinking?” he asked as he began rolling up his sleeves.

Madara didn’t answer. He was staring at the broad lines of Hashirama’s forearms. He didn’t even react as Hashirama somehow summoned the sheer _temerity_ to reach over the table and snag his bottle by the long glass neck, pulling it to his lips in one swift motion. Hashirama was watching him, too, eyes dark as he lowered the bottle.

“Excuse me – it was Beckett, right? Mr. Beckett,” Hashirama rambled, eyes not leaving Madara’s. He slid the bottle back towards him over the rough surface of the table. “I’ll take one of those, if you’ve any left.”

“Drinking on the Lord’s day?” Madara asked at last. He flipped the knife between the fingers of his right hand, watched the way the moisture glistened on Hashirama’s lips, then drove it between his index finger and thumb.

“Oh, are you playing five finger fillet?” Hashirama asked, leaning forward. He didn’t answer his question. “Do you have another knife?”

 _Do you have another knife_. Madara snorted scornfully and reached down to pull it out of his boot, sliding it wordlessly across the table.

Hashirama’s beer hit the table with a _thump_ at the same time as Hashirama’s fingers closed around the knife – and, oh, wasn’t that a sight? Hashirama picking up the knife in one hand and taking a long draught of his beer with the other.

“Shall we make a bet on it?” Hashirama asked, licking his lips as he readied his hand.

“I didn’t take you for a gambling man,” Madara said as he lined up his knife.

“I’m full of surprises, lately,” Hashirama said. He went first – the knife bit into the wood between his fingers with surprising speed. He was still looking at Madara with those deep brown eyes.

The rest of the bar was silent – they had been from the moment Hashirama walked in. Madara was suddenly, viciously grateful to whatever deity was listening that Nezumi wasn’t present.

It was his turn. The rhythm of the knife under his hands was as familiar as his heart behind his ribs – a smile was coiling in the shadows of Hashirama’s lips.

Hashirama’s turn. The knife carved into the wood with shocking ferocity. Every time he blinked, Madara could see his eyelashes flutter. 

His turn. He wasn’t even bothering to spread his fingers – his hand sat, relaxed, on the tabletop as the cold steel barely brushed past the skin.

It was Hashirama’s turn again, but Hashirama paused, eyes flicking down, once, to their hands where they lay on the tabletop. “Hey,” he said, licking his lips again. “Do you trust me?”

“Absolutely not,” Madara immediately replied, even as he leaned in closer.

“Hold still,” Hashirama said, and slowly, deliberately, rested the tip of the knife between Madara’s index finger and thumb. Eyes locked on his, Hashirama let the knife fly with the same ferocity – his smile was back, and Madara found himself lost in it. It didn’t occur to him to be concerned, even in the slightest – his heart was pounding in his chest, for certain, but it wasn’t fear pumping through his veins.

There wasn’t even a question as Madara raised his knife when Hashirama’s turn ended. He was leaning in over the table, and the blade sang in his hand. There was no trace of tension anywhere in Hashirama’s body as Madara came within millimeters of severing the tendons in his hands. The steel bit into the wood of the table like a viper strike.

“ _Hashirama!_ ” came the furious shout from outside the bar.

Madara jerked, startled, as Hashirama’s hand pulled away. He blinked, dazed and confused, as Hashirama pulled on his jacket, tossing a quarter – an _entire quarter_ – onto the tabletop, saying, “See you around, Madara,” as he made his way toward the exit in long, loping strides.

Then he was gone.

The Uchiha around him were acting almost as disoriented as Madara felt – a few were rubbing their eyes, as if they’d just woken up from some kind of trance. Madara gaped at the empty chair across from him, and the two knives still stuck into the worn surface.

“Are you –” Kuro began, leaning over in his chair. “Are you alright, boss?”

“I’m fine,” Madara said hoarsely. He downed the rest of his beer in a single breath, and didn’t even consider hesitating before reaching over the table and draining Hashirama’s, as well.

“He’s, uh,” Kuro was still talking. “He’s pretty good at stabscotch, isn’t he?”

Madara stood abruptly. “Ed, everybody’s drinks are on me. Send me the bill.” Then he stormed out of the saloon. His ears were ringing. He felt like he was going to be ill.

* * *

Tobirama scolded him all the way back to the estate.

“I’m _disappointed_ , brother – enough that you’d waste your time loitering in that cesspool any other day, but to flee straight into the arms of sin _right after_ the service? It’s disrespectful. It’s _shameful_. Not only to visit the establishment, but to turn to _drink_ on the Lord’s day, on top of it? Hashirama, honestly, I expected better of you. Just because you’re upset about your marr –”

“Enough,” Hashirama said flatly, raising his hand in a sharp motion. “Enough, Tobirama. I know, it was a sin. I fell into temptation. The Lord forgives, does he not? I’ll buy the church new glass windows.”

“It doesn’t work like that, brother.”

“It works well enough for the Catholics, doesn’t it?” Hashirama said sourly.

The carriage pulled to a stop outside the gravel path leading up to the estate.

“Hashirama, please,” Tobirama caught his arm as he descended the short steps. “I’m worried for you. This isn’t like you.”

“Tobirama, let go. I have many things that require my attention.”

“No, you don’t.” Tobirama followed him onto the gravel path, keeping time with Hashirama’s long strides. “It’s the Lord’s day. You will _rest_.”

“And how am I to redeem my errant soul in the eyes of the Lord, our God, if I should sit about so easily in slothful respite?” Hashirama said. He didn’t look at Tobirama as they reached the front door of the house.

“Is this about your marriage?” Tobirama demanded as they crossed the foyer.

“ _Drop it_ , Tobirama. I’m not in the mood.”

“I will do no such thing. Why did I even ask? Of course, this is about your marriage.” Tobirama shook his head and began to follow him up the stairs. “Will you continue acting like this once Miss. Uzumaki has arrived? Will you begin taking whiskey with your morning coffee, next?”

They were at the top of the stairs. Hashirama wheeled around and seized him by the collar of his shirt – then immediately released it and backed off, hands raised nonthreateningly. “Tobirama,” he said. “Please leave me alone. I would like to be alone. Let me pray for my soul in peace.”

Tobirama tracked his movements through his strange red eyes, mouth creased in a frown. Then he straightened, adjusting his collar, his face now as impassive as it ever was. “Do as you like, brother. I’ll be in the parlor.”

Hashirama watched him descend the stairs, already feeling sorry. But he’d gotten what he wanted, hadn’t he? He walked measuredly to his bedroom, closed the door, and after a moment’s consideration, locked it. He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar, and began to put away his clothes.

He did not ruminate on the wild exhilaration he’d felt in the bar. His mind didn’t dwell on the way Madara’s mouth had parted, slightly, as Hashirama had placed the knife between his fingers. He didn’t linger on the way Madara’s breath hitched, slightly, every time the blade struck the wood.

Hashirama knelt by his bedside, pulled out his bible, and began to pray.


	8. Chapter 8

_And these shall go away into everlasting punishment in the Fires of Amaterasu: but the righteous into life eternal. - Matthew 25:46_

Mito Uzumaki had been travelling by train, and, for a brief stretch, by boat. She was now in the back of a horse-drawn carriage, and was heartily sick of travelling. Her friends had abandoned her in Saint Louis, waving tearfully out of the back of the carriage station as she disappeared from view. Mito was alone, save for the few servants she could convince Ashina to let her bring with her.

She watched the rolling hills turn to bluffs, then smooth back into hills. The sound of cicadas was overwhelming. The mosquitos were almost as bad as the ones down south. The stench of river mud permeated the entire countryside.

She had no tears left in her, anymore. Mito watched Saint Louis recede into the distance with dry eyes, and turned to look upon her new home with a heavy heart.

It was several days before they reached any kind of civilization. The first farmstead they passed by could barely even be called a farm – the house seemed like it was made out of debris and shorn bark, hardly befitting the term – and the cultivation around it was sporadic, the crops blending in and out of the wilderness with no visible boundaries.

The farmers were the worst, though. They leered at her from their porches and from their fields, sweeping aside ragged black curtains of hair to stare at her with pitch black eyes. They smiled like wolves as the carriage passed by, and Mito was glad to see them again turn their backs to the road.

It was probably for the best that she didn’t see the shapes flitting through the trees behind the carriage as they approached the Senju estate.

The land opened up abruptly as they neared the wrought iron gate, the tangle of underbrush cleared for a smooth expanse of grass. On the approach to the great house stood a modest array of servants, and two men of some clear status – they stood apart from the rest and watched her carriage pull to a stop with the same flat eyes.

As her foot touched the top step of the stair it was like a spell broke. The taller of the two men – handsome, with his long brown hair tied back in a low ponytail – darted forward and offered her his hand.

“Hello, Miss. Uzumaki,” he said as she descended from the carriage. His voice was deep. “It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I’m Hashirama Senju.”

Mito stood straight and smoothed down her skirts, looking him over. Hashirama Senju was tall, and broad, and had all his teeth – he wasn’t _bad_ to look at, Mito mused internally as she smiled demurely. She could make this work. There were laugh lines in the corners of his face. He was probably thrilled to have her as his wife.

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Senju,” she said, curtsying.

“May I introduce you to my brother, Tobirama?” Hashirama gestured towards the taciturn man behind him. He had shocking white hair and red eyes. Mito dipped her head and tried not to stare.

“Brother,” the other man said suddenly, with a warning note in his voice. “We have company.” Mito saw his hand go to his hip – was that a _gun?_

Hashirama’s head jerked up, his dark brown eyes scanning the distant tree line. His mouth creased in a frown. “It’s fine, Tobirama.”

Tobirama didn’t remove his hand from the pistol. He glared out into the trees.

Mito whirled around, eyes scanning the forest, but all she could see was the unfamiliar foliage rustling in the breeze.

“Mrs. Cooper,” Hashirama continued loudly. “Could you please ensure Miss. Uzumaki’s luggage is brought inside?”

“Of course, Mr. Senju.”

“Tobirama, I said it’s _fine_. Leave your gun alone, they’re not here to cause trouble.”

“As you say. Miss. Uzumaki,” Tobirama released his grip, stepped forward, and offered his elbow in sharp, jerking motions. “You must be tired. Come with me.”

As Mito laid her fingers on the crook of his arm and let herself be led towards the house, she turned back to watch her fiancé. He didn’t move, even as the carriage driver pulled away and the servants began bringing her luggage down the long gravel path. Hashirama stood, rooted to the spot, eyes fixed on the distant trees.

* * *

Dinner was tense. Tobirama could hardly be described as social, but even he could see the palpable awkwardness that suffused the broad dining room.

Hashirama asked few questions of his new fiancée. Mito asked even fewer of him. She ate her meal in small, measured bites. At the end of the meal, she folded her napkin on the tabletop, arranged her silverware politely on her plate, handles facing to the right, then stood, without asking to be excused, and left the dining room.

Hashirama spared her a brief glance as her skirts disappeared around the doorframe.

“Hashirama,” Tobirama said, setting down his knife and fork. “You should go talk to her.”

“We’ve been talking this whole time!”

“No,” Tobirama said flatly. “You haven’t. I will stay here and finish my meal. You need to go talk to her. If this is what life will be like in this household once you are married, I will need to start construction on a separate domicile.” He paused briefly, then pulled out his notebook. “That might actually be a good idea, regardless.” He made a quick note with a pencil, then laced it back shut and returned it to his pocket, glaring up at Hashirama once more. “Brother. Go.”

Hashirama sighed and dropped his napkin next to his plate as he stood, chair scraping along the ground.

Tobirama listened to his heavy footfalls up the stairs, and took a sip of water. He wasn’t sure who was suffering more – Mito, Hashirama, or himself, for having to endure this.

* * *

“ _Red_ hair?” Nezumi asked, disgusted. “She has _red_ hair?”

“She certainly did seem… dignified,” Hikaku said, resting back on his heels.

Insects buzzed around them in the underbrush. Nezumi swatted at a mosquito and hissed, “But she looks nothing like him!”

“We know looks didn’t factor into it,” Hikaku said. “You said he’d never met her before. This was probably arranged.”

“Arranged by _who_? Who did this?”

“His father? Someone in authority, if I had to guess.” Hikaku stood, stretching. The branches scraped at his dark wool jacket. “We should head back. There’s every chance the younger Mr. Senju actually will come shoot us, if we linger.”

“We can still fix this,” Nezumi said. She didn’t rise from her crouch. “They’ll get married at the church? Here’s a simple solution – why don’t we burn the church down?”

“Because that’ll make Madara mad,” Hikaku said. He tugged on her sleeve until Nezumi reluctantly stood upright. “You know he’ll be the one to end up paying for repairs.”

“Not necessarily,” Nezumi said, casting a derisive sneer back at the Senju manor. “Not with the way that white-haired one keeps throwing his checkbook around. He’d probably _come_ to the thought of financing a new church building.”

“You’re as disgusting as ever, Nezumi. Come on. Madara’s going to want to know where we were.”

* * *

In the end, despite Nezumi’s best efforts, the wedding went as planned.

Zechariah Small presided as Mito and Hashirama traded thin gold rings before the altar. The wedding itself was small, as Hashirama had instructed – the church itself was full to bursting with bright flowers and vibrant cloth, and Mito was resplendent in a gleaming white silk gown – but only their servants, Tobirama, and three or four well-wishers filled the narrow church pews.

Hashirama tried to squash his disappointment when it became clear Madara wasn’t going to show.

Mito’s lips were soft and gentle.

At the end of the ceremony, a photographer snapped a picture of the newly married couple and shook their hands, congratulating Hashirama on his beautiful wife. He smiled and thanked the man as he packed away his equipment.

They had no honeymoon planned. There was no cavalcade awaiting them, no special carriage to ferry them away into marital bliss. Mito tucked her skirts tightly and sat beside Hashirama as they all climbed into the same carriage that they had arrived in.

It was hard for Mito to pretend this wasn’t one of the worst days of her life. Hashirama was violently suppressing the same thought as he stared out the carriage window.

The ride home was silent. The servants descended from the carriage first, clearing the way for Tobirama, then Hashirama, who extended his hand to help Mito down.

They had drinks in the parlor: a bottle of wine, imported from France. Mito savored the taste of grapes it left on her tongue, and wished she could take it and hide and drown her sorrows under something other than fifty yards of taffeta.

Tobirama drained a single glass of wine, then announced that he was going to go check up on the construction of their brewery, and left.

Mito stood four feet away from Hashirama, who walked over to a dark green armchair and all but collapsed into it. She nursed her wine silently as she watched a servant clear away Tobirama’s abandoned glass.

Their talk the other night had not gotten far. What could they say to each other? Mito couldn’t help but feel a little frustrated – he was supposed to be _delighted_ to marry a woman like her. Men had _killed_ each other to be in her presence. Was she doing something wrong? For a man who was supposed to be happy, Hashirama was doing a piss-poor job of hiding how unsatisfied he was with the whole affair. For a brief second, Mito hated him, and this house, and this wine – if she was such a poor bride, then _he_ should have said something before the wedding!

Hashirama drained the last of his wine and stood, shoulders firm, like he’d come to some kind of conclusion. He set the wine glass down on the small table and offered her his arm. “Walk with me?”

Mito stared at it, then at him, and took another sip of her wine. “Apologies, but I’m not finished,” she said. “Besides, I would much rather get changed out of my _wedding_ dress before I go tramping about outside.”

Hashirama flushed slightly and immediately retracted his hand. “Of course,” he said. “How thoughtless of me, Miss. Uzum –” He stopped short, as if struggling with the words. “Mito. Sorry, Mito. Take your time. I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

Mito watched him leave the parlor. The wine tasted overly sweet on her tongue.

* * *

The crack of the rifle rang out through the clearing. Kuro cheered as the bottle shattered.

Madara pulled the lever, cocked the hammer, and aimed again.

It was getting dark. The row of broken glass bottles glinted in the dying sunlight.

* * *

Hashirama let a long sigh out between his teeth and loosened his tie.

He wasn’t dreading tonight. He _wasn’t_. He wasn’t unfamiliar with the concept of sex – he wasn’t even unfamiliar with the _act_. And this was right and proper, too – it was their wedding night, after all. And Mito was a beautiful woman – and –

Was he nervous? Maybe.

Mito was sitting at a small vanity near the door, combing an ivory-handled brush through her hair. It fell down her pale shoulders in crimson waves.

“Don’t be nervous, husband,” she said, watching him in the reflection.

Hashirama smiled broadly at her as he fumbled with his shirtsleeve. “Nervous?” he said. “I’m not –”

“You’re nervous,” Mito said, rising. She set the brush down on the vanity and walked over to him with sure steps. “You’ll be fine.”

She leaned in close. Her eyelashes were thick and dark. Hashirama could smell floral perfume as she pressed her lips to his. She really _was_ beautiful – Hashirama wished it didn’t sound so much like he was trying to convince himself of that fact as her hands came up to rest on his shoulders.

Mito broke away briefly, fingers sliding down his chest as she began to deftly unbutton his shirt. Hashirama felt awkward – what was he supposed to do with his hands? He raised them, hesitantly, and ran them through her hair. That seemed a safe enough action. Her hair was soft, and slid through his fingers like silk. Hashirama had the sudden, wild thought that it was almost _too_ soft, which was stupid. Mito took care of her hair!

She pulled his shirt down over his shoulders, then followed with his undershirt. Hashirama’s skin erupted with goose bumps as Mito pulled her own nightgown over her head. She wasted no time and pulled him down, towards the bed, until he was propped up on his elbows over her. Hashirama’s long brown hair fell in a waterfall around them as she kissed him, tongue swiping along the contours of his mouth.

Hashirama was still wearing his pants, but was in no great hurry to remove them – there wasn’t much point, yet.

He wondered what Madara was up to. Did Nezumi even pass along his message? He was disappointed when he didn’t see Madara’s thick black mane amongst the churchgoers, he had to admit. He wasn’t sure why he thought he’d even show in the first place – aside from the spirited game of five finger filet they had played together in the Red Grass Saloon –

Mito moaned as he tongued the side of her neck.

– aside from that, he’d had markedly little contact with the Uchiha patriarch in the past few weeks, which was something he was determined to rectify as soon as possible!

Mito reached down to touch him through the wool of his pants and froze.

Hashirama bit his tongue and looked aside.

“Not even a _little_?” she said softly, disappointed.

“I’m sorry,” Hashirama said. “I just – give it a minute.”

Mito looked like she was starting to blink back tears.

“Mito, I’m sorry,” Hashirama said. “It’s not you, it’s –”

“Am I such a disappointment for you?” she asked, scooting backwards on the bed and propping herself up on her elbows. “Have I already been that bad of a wife?”

“Mito,” Hashirama said firmly, sitting upright. He grabbed her by a wrist. “Stop. You’re doing fine – you’re doing great. I have a – a kind of medical condition. It will take me a while.”

She could tell he was lying. She stared at him through watery eyes, sniffed, and looked away. “Fine,” she said. “Shall we continue?”

Hashirama cupped her cheek and turned her head back to face him. He faltered, briefly, looking into her deep brown eyes – and then some small, terrible part of him whispered, _what if her eyes were just a little darker?_

Hashirama hated himself, he really did. But it _helped_ , even so – if he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine rougher lips against his own, harder angles under his palms –

He stopped just short of the memory of pipe smoke. But it was fine.

Everything was fine.


	9. Chapter 9

_Drink no longer water, but use a little wine for thy stomach's sake and thine often infirmities. – 1 Timothy 5:23_

It had been a rough week in the Senju estate.

Mrs. Cooper dusted, cleaned, mopped, and scrubbed. She gave a wide berth to the three inhabitants – it wasn’t her job to pry, even if Mr. Hashirama and Mrs. Mito were clearly miserable. Mr. Tobirama confined himself to his quarters and his office, coming out only for meals and to take the occasional visitor in the parlor. Mr. Hashirama began chopping firewood for them with great regularity – all the better for the servants, Mrs. Cooper reflected as she watched him through the kitchen curtains, as John’s back got worse every year and it never hurt to have more firewood on hand. He could stand to wait a few hours after sunrise before he started, but it was none of Mrs. Cooper’s business to tell him when he should or shouldn’t help around the house.

Mrs. Mito was coming along better than she had when she arrived. She’d learned the names of most of the servants, and was a decently friendly girl, when Mr. Hashirama wasn’t in the room. Mrs. Cooper felt badly for her, of course – arranged marriages were hardly befitting a young, vibrant thing like her, and it was a pity that they were so far from any other civilization.

Everyone was walking on eggshells, while at the same time trying to pretend very hard that everything was fine. For Mrs. Cooper, it _was_ fine, for the most part – emotional turmoil of her employers notwithstanding, there would always be dusting to get done at the end of the day.

It was a Sunday evening when everything went to shit.

* * *

“How _fucking_ dare you?” Mito hissed, face red. She stood in front of the parlor fireplace, hands balled at her sides, glaring venomously at an unmoved Tobirama, standing in front of the doorway.

“How dare _I_?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. “You’re the one blowing everything out of proportion. It was a _fact_ , not some opinion I am only just now voicing –”

“ _Blowing everything out of proportion_ , do you even hear yourself?” Mito laughed at him derisively. “You pompous _ass_ , do you think I _wanted_ to come out here? Do you think I _wanted_ to marry that –”

“Choose your words carefully, Miss. Uzumaki,” Tobirama snarled.

“It’s _Mrs. Senju,_ now, or did you conveniently forget that we actually _are_ married? I am his _wife_ , I will call him whatever I please.”

“You are his wife, but I am his brother, and I will not hear you slander him in his own home.”

“What slander could I speak that you have not already done against me?”

“I spoke the _truth_. As I said, it is not some _opinion_ –”

“Neither, then, is what I said!” Mito spat. “Not that it was ever _any_ of your _fucking business_.”

“It is my business, as this is as much _my_ household as it is _yours_ ,” Tobirama snapped, stepping further into the parlor.

“I’m done. I’m done!” Mito threw her hands into the air and stormed past him, through the door to the hall. “If you see my _beloved husband_ , tell him I went for a _walk_.”

“Gladly,” Tobirama said frostily at her retreating back.

Mito slammed the front door of the house so hard the panes of glass rattled in their frames.

Mrs. Cooper opened the door to the kitchen and peered into the hall. Seeing no one, she sighed, and wiped her hands on a towel as she walked down towards the parlor. “Everything alright, Mr. Tobirama?” she asked, leaning around the doorframe.

“Everything’s fine, Mrs. Cooper.” Tobirama was standing ram-rod straight, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “There’s no cause for alarm. Miss – Mrs. Mito is going to get some air.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Cooper said. She lingered in the doorframe. “Mr. Tobirama, if I might ask…”

“You may not,” Tobirama said sharply. He exhaled forcefully between his teeth and bowed his head. “I apologize, Mrs. Cooper. It is best we just let the matter lie. Mrs. Mito will no doubt return sometime tonight, and we will discuss things amicably in the morning.”

“Right.” Mrs. Cooper cocked her head. “Would you like some tea, Mr. Tobirama? Coffee?”

For a moment, it looked like Tobirama was going to decline. But then the stern line between his brows vanished and he sagged visibly. “Tea would be wonderful, Mrs. Cooper.”

“Right.”

* * *

Mito was enraged. She was furious. The sheer _nerve_ of that man – what harm had she ever done him? None! She had done _nothing_ to deserve such treatment – Rosalie hadn’t been lying when she said the younger brother was an _ass_.

The gravel path quickly gave way to dirt road, and Mito walked in brisk, determined strides. She had no destination in mind – the estate was too far for her to walk to the sad little bar in that mud-hole they called a town, anyway, not to mention the fact that it was growing dark – but she felt as if she didn’t release this energy _somehow_ , it was going to manifest itself in _murder_. Or acne. Murder _and_ acne.

Before long, Mito found herself in the woods, with no clear idea how she got there. Well, she had an idea, of course – she wasn’t walking with her eyes closed – but the woods had crept up so slowly that one minute she felt like she’d been walking on a clear path, and in the next she was in the wilderness.

It was dark in earnest now. The pale strips of sky she could see through the black shadows of the trees cast no light on her path; the voids between the tree trunks seemed to loom at her as she picked her way through the underbrush.

“Are you lost?” asked a female voice, disconcertingly close to her ear.

Mito yelped and spun around, hand lashing out. Fingers closed around her wrist and an arm from the opposite direction came out to steady her shoulder.

“Careful,” said different voice.

Mito was about four seconds away from panicking. “Who are you?” she demanded.

“Good Samaritans, apparently,” the second voice said wryly. “I’m not giving you my eye, though.”

“You _are_ lost,” the first voice said. The fingers around her wrist loosened. “Come with us! We’ll help.”

“Who _are_ you?” Mito said again, pulling her hand free.

“I’m Sachiko,” the first voice said. “If you want us to leave you here, we can, but you probably won’t find your way home until morning. These woods can be pretty confusing in the dark.”

“It might solve Nezumi’s problem if we left her here, though,” the second voice said. Mito could hear him smiling around the words.

“No, Kuro,” Sachiko said. “Nezumi’s gonna have to work harder than that. She hasn’t _earned_ it yet.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Well, Mrs. Senju? We’ll take you somewhere safe. Promise.”

Mito looked up at the sky, which was visibly darkening with every second that passed, then down at the surrounding woods. She sighed. “Okay.”

Madara was drinking. He’d been doing a lot of that in the past week. Hikaku’s well-organized ledger swam before his eyes and he took a minute to rub fiercely at them before squinting back down at it.

There was a knock on his office door. “Hey, boss,” came Kuro’s muffled voice. “You might wanna come see this.”

Madara staggered to his feet. His shoulder smacked painfully into the doorframe as he wrenched it open. “ _What_?” he said irritably.

Kuro just pointed. Madara looked.

Mito Senju was perched on top of a barrel, dress half unbuttoned, drinking moonshine straight out of a jar. Nezumi was kneeling at her feet, rapturous joy burning in her face; Sachiko was cheering as Tomiko uncorked another one of the clay jugs.

Slowly, very slowly, Madara shut his mouth and turned back to look at Kuro. “How long,” he began unsteadily. “How long has she been here?”

Kuro blinked, and shrugged. “Half an hour?”

“ _Why_ didn’t you come get me right away?” he hissed, slamming the office door shut.

“Honestly, boss, I was a little distracted –” Mito erupted in cackling laughter, and, like hyenas, the Uchiha women around her joined in.

Madara crossed the expanse of a warehouse in determined strides. He didn’t know what Hashirama Senju’s wife was doing here – aside from drinking their booze – but it needed to end.

He really, _really_ didn’t like the way Nezumi was smiling at her.

Sachiko saw him coming and whooped gleefully. Tomiko joined in, waving a jug towards him. “Mr. Madara!” she cheered.

“Come over, come over here!” Sachiko called, as if he wasn’t already headed directly towards them.

Mito spun around on top of the barrel, nearly falling off of it. She wobbled in place and squinted at him, before dramatically gasping and pointing. “You’re Madara Uchiha!”

“I just _said_ that!” Tomiko giggled, collapsing on her shoulders. “You’re so _silly_ , Mito!”

“No, no – that’s –” Mito waved her empty jar towards him, as if conjuring the words into existence. “God, I need more to drink. You’re –” She turned back to Madara. “He will not shut _up_ about you!”

Madara stopped dead, three feet away from the barrel. Nezumi bared her teeth up at him from the floor. “Mito’s been telling us some _great_ stories, boss,” she said. “Pull up a seat! Have a drink! You two have a _lot_ in common.”

Madara blinked, and suddenly he was being pushed into a chair with a bottle of moonshine pressed into his hand.

Like the Oracle at Delphi, Mito leaned down from her barrel and continued speaking to her audience as if she’d never been interrupted. “And he’s – he’s so polite, but that just makes it _worse_ ,” she said towards Nezumi’s general direction. Tomiko handed her the fresh jug of moonshine and, without hesitation, she took a hearty swig.

“Have you even had moonshine before?” Madara asked blankly.

“Shut up, cousin!” Nezumi said. “Quit fussing, she’s fine! Tell him about your wedding night,” she ordered Mito, tugging plaintively on her skirts.

Madara gaped, raising his hand to object, because what the _fuck_ , Nezumi, but Mito just swayed towards him and said, “He’s got a _huge_ dick, but it doesn’t _fucking work_.”

“ _What_?” Madara asked before he could stop himself.

Nezumi looked disgustingly smug. Madara took a giant gulp out of his jar before Mito could respond.

“I _mean_ it,” Mito swore, leaning even further forward. Her breasts were all but spilling out of the top of her chemise at this angle. “It took him almost a half hour to get it up, and when he finally did he didn’t look at me _once_! The whole night!” Her huge brown eyes were suddenly full of tears. “It’s because I’m _ugly_ , isn’t it? I’m _hideous_ –”

“You look fine,” said Madara with the instincts of a man raised by women. Sachiko erupted into laughter. Nezumi and Tomiko joined her, clinging onto the desolate Mito and giggling hysterically.

“He’s _right_ , sweet thing,” Sachiko said between snorts of laughter. She combed through Mito’s hair as it fell out of the sophisticated up-do. “You look _exceptionally_ fine, the problem is your _husband_.”

“He won’t stop talking about _business_ ,” Mito bemoaned loudly, falling backwards into Tomiko’s arms. This set off a whole new round of giggles. “And his _incredible_ business partner, and I’m _sick_ of it, I’ve been here a _week_ and I’m _tired_!”

“He’s been calling Tobirama incredible?” Madara snorted. “I can believe that, come to think of it.”

“ _No_ , stupid,” Mito said, lunging forward. “It’s _you_ he won’t shut up about – he started talking about you in our _marriage_ bed, that same night!”

Madara choked on his moonshine.

“He asked me what I thought about the _brewery_ business, and then I – and then – he – and he goes off about, about how _lucky_ he was! Lucky to have met such a –” Mito paused and screwed up her face; then, in a shockingly good impersonation of Hashirama, said, “’He’s so _clever_ , Mito, he’s so _dexterous_ with his _knives_ and his hair’s as long as _mine_ ’ and – and – god, don’t even get me _started_ on his _brother_ –”

Madara drained the jar in his hand. “Tomiko, go grab me a bottle,” he said, tossing the jar carelessly over his shoulder. It shattered with a spray of glass. “We’re going to be here for a while.”

* * *

Mito didn’t come home on Sunday night, but Hashirama wasn’t worried. This was mostly due to the fact that Hashirama himself wasn’t home on Sunday night, either. If anyone asked why he’d started napping in the foreman’s office on the construction site, he’d tell them that he just wanted to keep a close eye on the process – even though it was a Sunday night, and construction had halted for the day.

But no one asked, so Hashirama spent the night snoring, head pillowed on a stack of the foreman’s ledgers.

* * *

Monday was rough.

Hashirama was awoken in the early morning for an in-depth briefing about the construction site and its operational state of affairs by the foreman, Mr. Porter – which was to be expected, really, since Hashirama had been sleeping in his office.

Once Hashirama had managed to extricate himself from Mr. Porter’s steely gaze and many, many blueprints, he was almost immediately waylaid by Tobirama upon walking through the front door of his house. His brother dragged him to their study, wherein he had already painstakingly drawn up the graphs and charts of the household expenses for the past few months and they weren’t _reconciling_ , brother, I must _exhort_ you to keep better books –

– and by the time he’d freed himself from Tobirama’s angry lecture on proper accounting, he was immediately waylaid by a distraught Mrs. Cooper, whose son John had gotten trapped under a wagon –

– and by the time he’d lifted the wagon off of John (causing one of the surrounding onlookers to faint in surprise), it was almost noon.

Hashirama had a brief lunch of toast, fruit, and coffee –

– and then received news that the state assessors had arrived at the church and were waiting for him to begin the next round of meetings to establish the city of Konoha –

– and upon his arrival realized that, not only was Tobirama already there, but he’d left his notebook and all his papers back at the house –

– and by the time he returned, all that was left for him to do was to sign paper after paper with Zechariah Small, who would deliver them to Madara Uchiha for _his_ signature.

“Speaking of,” Hashirama said, scribbling his name on another indistinguishable form and handing it off. “How is Madara, anyway? Have you seen him, recently?”

“Can’t say I have, Mr. Senju,” Zechariah said.

Hashirama’s trip home consisted of him half-listening to Tobirama go over the decisions made during the meeting – important decisions, Hashirama was sure! – and staring out of the carriage at the trees as they passed by, thinking about the last time he’d seen Madara. How long had it been at this point, since that scene in the bar? Two weeks, three? Far too long, Hashirama resolved.

As the carriage pulled into the drive, Hashirama’s eyes immediately slid to the woodshed. They were getting low again! Best to take advantage of the sunlight, he mused as he slid down from the carriage, pulling off his jacket as he went.

“What are you doing?” Tobirama asked flatly from behind him.

“Just giving Mr. and Mrs. Cooper a hand with the firewood,” Hashirama said cheerily as he loosened his tie.

Tobirama rolled his eyes, gathered his books from the carriage, and went inside.

Hashirama’s fingers wrapped around the rough grain of the axe, and for the next few hours, he didn’t think about Madara at all.

He was so busy _not_ thinking about Madara, in fact, that it completely escaped his notice that Mito still had not come home.

* * *

On Tuesday, it rained.

The sweltering heat from the past few days carried through Monday night, and on Tuesday morning, just as the sun would have begun to climb the sky, the heavens opened over the valley and a torrential downpour began to thunder over the treetops. The humidity somehow still clung, thick and cloyingly, to the air.

“Well,” Tobirama said over breakfast. “Mr. Porter won’t be pleased.”

Hashirama swirled the coffee in his cup. “Should we… send someone out to look for Mito?”

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Tobirama said dismissively.

A roll of thunder shook the glass panes in the dining room. The sky was so dark, the servants had needed to light the candles for them to even see to eat.

Hashirama pushed his plate away. “She didn’t tell you where she was going?”

“Hashirama,” Tobirama said, setting down his coffee mug. “She was walking directly towards Uchiha territory. As fastidious as those beasts are about ‘their’ woods? She’s fine. I promise.”

“You think some Uchiha family is sheltering her, then?”

“Oh, I think some Uchiha family is definitely keeping her _some_ kind of company,” Tobirama said.

Hashirama shot him a glare. “Tobirama.”

“What? I didn’t mean it like that, brother.” Tobirama took a long, slow sip of his coffee. “I wonder if our dinner guests tonight will want to reschedule.”

Hashirama looked up from his plate. “Dinner guests?”

“Weren’t you – oh, right. You weren’t there. Yes, we’re having guests over for dinner tonight. Mayors from neighboring cities, shareholders from out of town. You remember Mr. and Mrs. Mayview?”

Hashirama stared at him. “You didn’t think it would be a good idea to retrieve my _wife_ before scheduling a dinner party?”

Tobirama scoffed. “Why are you so concerned, brother? She’ll either show up of her own volition or she won’t. If she’s not here in time, we’ll say she’s out on a day trip. If she is, then she will attend, of course.”

“And what if she comes home during the event? Will that not raise some _questions_ , Tobirama? For a man as concerned with public face as you are, I would have assumed you’d thought this through a little better.”

“They’ll be here for an hour, Hashirama. Two at most. Many of these people have a long way to go to return home. It would be a stroke of unfeasibly bad luck for her to arrive _during_ the proceedings.”

* * *

Madara peered at the sky through the cracked door. It roiled and churned above, clouds only barely lit by the dying evening sun.

He had a _splitting_ headache. He wondered if it was due to the humidity or the booze.

Mito was snoring, sprawled out over the floor behind him. Her hair spilled around her like a pool of blood. Her chemise was completely ruined.

It was probably the booze, Madara decided as he shut the door. He leaned against it and slid down until he was sitting, and waited for the distant barn ceiling to stop spinning.

There was a clatter from the other side of the warehouse. Madara lazily let his eyes fall on the table, and watched dispassionately as an equally-hungover Nezumi crawled out from under a pile of empty boxes.

“Hngngnur,” she said, squinting ferociously at the weak light coming in through the loft.

“Mm,” Madara grunted.

“’S –” Nezumi paused, still half-lying on the floor. She gestured weakly at the ceiling. “Is – rain. Is’t raining?”

“No,” Madara said. He closed his eyes. “We need – no, I need – gotta take her home.” He pointed vaguely towards Mito’s general location.

“But rain.”

“Rain’s stopped. Hashirama’s –” Madara opened his eyes with great difficulty, and staggered back to his feet. “Hashirama’s probably worried. ‘Bout her. Gotta get her home.”

“Serves him right,” Nezumi said thickly to herself, rolling onto her back.

Madara pretended he couldn’t hear her as he shambled over to Mito. “God,” he muttered, kneeling over her unconscious form. “You can fucking drink, can’t you?”

Across the warehouse, Nezumi let out a slurred giggle.

“Come on.” Madara grabbed Mito by her arms and leveraged her into a sitting position. Her head lolled on her neck as she let out another snore. “Up ‘n… up ‘n at ‘em.” He pulled her over his shoulders as he stood, unsteadily.

Nezumi squinted at him again. Did she need glasses? Were they going to need to get Yasuo to test her eyes? “What’re you… boss. Are you gonna walk over there? Like that?”

“Yes,” Madara said shortly. He staggered over to the warehouse door and kicked it open. The humidity hit him like a brick wall. “Nezumi,” Madara called raggedly over his shoulder as he stumbled out the door. “I expect this place to be – to be fucking _pristine_ when I get back. Hear me?”

“Aye aye, boss,” came the weak response.

Madara hoisted the still-snoring Mito a little higher on his shoulder and started down the dirt path.

* * *

“It was fortuitous timing, to be sure,” the portly man laughed, reached for his wineglass.

What was his name? James? Johnathan? J – something. Hashirama realized he was fidgeting with the cuff of his shirtsleeve again and abruptly reached for his own glass.

“Congratulations, by the way!” said the woman directly to Hashirama’s left, raising her wineglass in a small salute. “I hear your bride is quite the beauty!”

 _So where is she_ , being the unasked question. Hashirama was fairly sure this woman’s name was Eustace. He smiled warmly at her. “Oh, she’s a jewel, to be sure. She’s been feeling under the weather, lately, so we sent her north a little ways – get her out of this heat for a while.”

“Oh, it has been _swelteringly_ hot, hasn’t it?” Cyprus Mayview laughed heartily, as if he’d just told a joke. Titters sounded around the table.

Tobirama sent Hashirama a brief look, evidently displeased that Hashirama changed Mito’s alibi without consulting him first. Hashirama couldn’t find it within himself to care. He took another sip of wine.

As the servants cleared away their dishes and brought out the next course, Tobirama tried to steer the conversation back on track. “We are, of course, very optimistic about the business prospects in this area,” he said.

There was a brief lull in the conversation.

Hashirama grimaced internally. Tobirama was trying his best. “Mr. Mayview,” he said loudly, leaning over the table. “Do tell me about your new automobile design. You say it’s reached up to _twenty_ miles per hour? Hahaha, am I saying that right?”

“Indeed you are, Mr. Senju,” Cyprus immediately latched onto the topic. “And it’s reached twenty _five_ , if you would believe it –”

Mr. Cooper removed the silver cover from the roast ham and began carving it with a long, thin knife.

The evening progressed without a hitch. The ham was delicious. They had cake for dessert, and when the cakes were cleared away, the small group retired to the lounge, where they drank another bottle of wine and, much to Tobirama’s relief, began discussing potential market inroads into the new city of Konoha.

At nine o’clock sharp, Hashirama and Tobirama followed the group outside to gaze appreciatively at Cyprus Mayview’s shining new automobile parked near the stable. It was painted black, and had wide seats. At Cyprus’ insistence, the group piled in, and the car began to trundle down the gravel path, away from the estate.

A little over ten minutes later, Madara Uchiha, wearing nothing but pants and stained shirtsleeves, reached the front door of the manor. There wasn’t even a shadow of hesitation in his body before he kicked it open, and an extremely startled Mrs. Cooper hastily scrambled to get out of the way as he all but dragged an unconscious Mito Senju upstairs. He roughly shouldered his way into Hashirama’s bedroom – how he knew which door to pick was anyone’s guess – and deposited Mito on the broad bed with little ceremony. He would have removed her shoes for her, too, but they were currently soaking inside one of the open casks at the Sharingan Breweries warehouse.

“Hashirama,” Mito slurred, still asleep. “Don’t put the… dumb…”

“He’s in your dreams, too, huh?” Madara muttered bitterly. His head was _killing_ him.

He staggered back down the stairs and almost ran into the (still very flustered) Mrs. Cooper. “You might want to go help her,” he said roughly, sidestepping around her, towards an open doorway. “Make sure she doesn’t choke on her vomit.”

“My heavens,” Mrs. Cooper said, paling. “What befell her? Is she ill?”

“Something like that,” Madara said as he stalked into the dimly lit parlor. “She’ll be fine in… a day or so. Probably.”

Mrs. Cooper, torn between minding this strange man and attending to Mr. Senju’s wife, allowed herself to fret for a single instant. Then, decisively, she abandoned Madara Uchiha and bustled upstairs, skirts bundled high in her hands.

Madara’s black eyes casually roved over the narrow parlor, taking in the tastefully arranged bookshelves, the modest fireplace, the two armchairs and the fainting couch, before finally landing on his prize: the liquor cabinet. It wasn’t locked, Madara noted with mild amusement as he grabbed the most expensive bottle of brandy he could find. He uncorked it with his teeth as he left through the front door.


	10. Chapter 10

_As in water face answereth to face, so the Sharingan of man to man.- Proverbs 27:19_

_My dear Madara,_

_I wanted to thank you most earnestly for returning my wife safely home the other night. All worry I had for her over the past few days was assuaged once I found out that she had been secure in your care._

_I hope to see you soon!_

_Yours,_

_Hashirama_

* * *

“Are you _quite_ sure you’re alright?” Hashirama asked earnestly, squeezing Mito’s hand where it rested on her skirts.

“I am,” she replied stiffly, not looking at him. A bird trilled softly in the rosebushes surrounding the gazebo. The smell of roses wasn’t helping Mito’s headache in the slightest.

“Tobirama and I were so worried when we thought you’d been caught out in that storm,” Hashirama continued, reaching past her to accept the cup of coffee from a servant. “But Tobirama assured me that you’d gone straight for the Uchiha territory. I was so relieved to see he was correct! I take it Madara was a decent host, at least?”

Mito stared at the tray of scones in front of her and prayed that the earth would swallow her. A decent host? Sure. Her last memories were of Madara, listening intently; a feeling of deep catharsis, like she’d just made confession in the House of God; and the smell of _corn_. All in all, not the _worst_ party she’d ever instigated.

Except now it was Wednesday, and her _dear_ husband just _wouldn’t. Leave. Her. Alone._

The gazebo behind the Senju estate was new enough that it still smelled like raw lumber. A soft breeze set the rosebushes gently rustling under the morning sun.

Mito desperately wanted to go back upstairs and burrow under every blanket in the house. She instead delicately extracted her hand from Hashirama’s earnest grasp and used it to raise her small coffee cup to her lips.

“I will be needing to go down to the brewery soon – Mr. Porter will no doubt wish to update me on all that’s happened since the downpour yesterday morning. The ground will be unforgiving, I’m sure, but if we can retain even a fraction of the speed with which we were building before, we should have the entire thing complete by the end of the month!”

Mito closed her eyes and hummed noncommittally. A bee buzzed somewhere nearby.

* * *

_My dearest Rosalie,_

_Thank you so much for your letter. I cannot express how dearly I miss you and the rest of the girls down in New Orleans. God willing, I will be able to convince my husband to send me down there to visit – or perhaps you could come up here?_

_My husband has a kind heart, though he has little time to waste with me. He regularly spends his nights on the construction site, or in his office, or God-knows-where – certainly not in our bed. If I were a lesser woman, I would fear infidelity – but I doubt Hashirama has even the vigor for that_ _. Rosalie, I have married a monk._

_His brother is a perfectly horrendous lizard_ _. In another life, he might have been tolerable – but between his brother and this bleak wilderness in which I find myself, he is simply unbearable company. He enjoys his numbers and his sums, and is a man of God – which, in and of itself is not an issue, of course, but he is the sort to cast loud aspersions at the slightest indulgence._

_It’s just dreadful, Rosalie. And I haven’t even the space to tell you about the Uchiha family! Tell me something funny when you write back._

_Yours,_

_Mito_

* * *

“I can give you five hundred.”

Madara leaned against the wagon, arms crossed, and cocked his head. “Five hundred.”

The man flushed, tugging at his collar. Even in the woods, the sun was punishingly hot. “Yes. The last batch was – well –”

“Hikaku,” Madara said flatly, unmoving. “It seems our customer would like to register a complaint about our product.”

Hikaku paused where he was writing and looked up, glancing briefly from Madara to the short man. He sighed, rolled his eyes, and, tucking his clipboard under his arm, pulled out his gun.

“Now see here, Mr. Uchiha – Misters Uchiha –” The man stammered, waving his hands. His eyes were as large as saucers.

“Oh? I thought there was something wrong with our liquor?” Madara said blankly. “Do you want to lodge the complaint or not?”

“I have enough ammo for –” Hikaku flicked the pistol open. “– six complaints.”

“This is absurd,” The man blustered, balling his fists.

“No,” Madara said. “What’s absurd is you telling me this entire wagon’s only worth five hundred dollars to you. I _know_ there wasn’t anything wrong with that last batch. Our quality control is _very_ rigorous.”

Hikaku rolled his eyes again.

Madara continued. “If you were buying this from a licensed distributor, you’d be paying four dollars per _gallon_. Our barrels contain 53 gallons _each_ , and this cart has _six_ of them. Hikaku, can you run this math for me? I don’t think this fellow learned his numbers as a boy.”

“One thousand two hundred and seventy two, Mr. Madara.”

Madara sighed and stared at the man. “So, Mr. Jacobs. I get where you’re coming from. We are, after all, some ways away from your place of business. We don’t have any of the fancy printed labels on our bottles, and we don’t have the federal seal of approval for our liquor. I get it.”

Mr. Jacobs took a step forward. “It was not my intention to insult you, Mr. Uchiha, please believe me.”

“Oh, I do. I _am_ a little insulted, though.”

Hikaku tapped his pistol against his thigh impatiently.

“I’ll tell you what. I obviously shouldn’t be charging you $1,272 for this wagon – you came to me because my liquor’s _cheap_ , right?” Madara smiled warmly. “I’ll give it to you for $1,200, even. Out of the kindness of my heart.”

Mr. Jacobs froze, mouth hanging open.

Madara continued to smile pleasantly.

Hikaku waved the pistol in the air. “Unless you _do_ wish to register that complaint you had earlier, Mr. Jacobs? We are still giving you a discount, after all.”

The wind left Mr. Jacobs’ body in a rush. “Fine,” he said, withdrawing his checkbook.

Madara’s smile broadened. He loved business days.

* * *

“So,” Hikaku said from the driver’s seat as the now-empty wagon trundled back down the path. “Are we going to talk about Monday?”

“What is there to talk about?” Madara said from his spot in the wagon bed. He was scribbling numbers into the ledger with a charcoal pencil.

Hikaku twisted around in the chair to stare at him with a single, baleful eye.

Madara ignored him.

“You’re avoiding him.”

“Who?”

“Don’t pull this shit with me today, Mr. Madara. The man you were crying about on the warehouse floor night before last.”

“I was not _crying_ –”

“You were,” Hikaku said flatly. He flicked the reins and the horse snorted. “Aren’t we doing business with his company? Shouldn’t you two be meeting on the regular, these days?”

“Oh? Are you concerned I’m neglecting my _duties_ to the _business_ , Hikaku?”

“A little, yes,” Hikaku said. “You keep drinking the way you’ve been this past week, we’ll need to double the output to keep up with customer demands. Not to mention Mrs. Senju –”

Madara snapped the ledger shut. “ _Mrs. Senju_ ,” he scoffed, tucking it back into his jacket.

“You seemed awfully chummy with her the other night,” Hikaku said. He was playing a dangerous game, he knew, but it had to be done. He gave one of the reins a short tug.

“Chummy?!” Madara snarled, getting up on his knees to lean over the partition. “What the fuck are you _implying_ , Hikaku?”

“I’m just saying,” Hikaku said firmly, eyes fixed on the road. “If you want to spend time with her, doing it while her husband is present might assuage some suspicions.”

“I have no desire to spend time with that man’s _wife_ ,” Madara hissed.

“’That man’?” Hikaku asked sardonically. “We’re not even referring to him by name, now?”

Madara made a short noise of disgust and flopped back down into the wagon bed. “You can refer to him however you like,” he grumbled. “I have better things to do with my time than waste it with…” Madara waved a hand in the air. “… him.”

“Hmm,” Hikaku said. “The warehouse is already going at max capacity. After this sale we should be able to slow it down for a week or two. You’ll have time. You should go over to his estate, talk business.”

“Whatever you gave Nezumi, I’ll double it.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Madara. I don’t make bets.”

“What a coincidence, Hikaku. Neither do I.”

* * *

_H. Senju:_

_It would be remiss of me not to congratulate you on your nuptials._

_Zechariah has received the signed documents. The official ribbon cutting ceremony for the newly incorporated City of Konoha will need to be arranged. I’m sure your esteemed brother has plans._

Madara gently lowered the pen to the desk. What did he want to say, here? He needed to be careful with his wording.

What he _wanted_ was to seize Hashirama Senju by his stupid paisley tie and –

– and what? Madara felt… Madara didn’t know how he felt. He rubbed his hands vigorously over his face and reached for one of the knives scattered around the office.

Did he feel… snubbed?

The tip of the knife dug into the wood of his desk. He began to carve a little hole on the already-pockmarked surface.

Why would Madara feel snubbed? Is snubbed even the right word for it? Scorned? … Betrayed? It sounded so dramatic when he put it like that. They weren’t even – they weren’t –

Madara had clearly misread something in their first encounter. And their second. And all the other encounters since that point. Because Hashirama got engaged and then he got hitched, and he wasn’t supposed to _do_ that, not after looking at Madara like that. Not after the way his hands had rested on Madara’s knees like that, not after he’d wrapped his arms around him and _held_ him like that.

Sure, fine, alright, maybe Madara _did_ feel a little betrayed. So what? So what if he’d spent the night of Hashirama’s wedding drowning himself in raw liquor? So what if he’d started keeping a bottle next to his bed? It didn’t help the fucking dreams, that was for sure. Dreams of a solid weight pinning him to the bed, of deft, warm hands ripping through the buttons on his shirt – no, the liquor definitely wasn’t helping the dreams.

He bit his tongue between his front teeth and worked the knife deeper into the wood.

So, the question that came back to the fore was: why exactly was he writing him a letter? Tobirama, at least, surely knew Zechariah’d received the documents already. This was pointless. If he wanted to _see_ Hashirama that badly, he could’ve taken him up on any of the innumerable dinner offers the man had sent him, instead of burning them in his bedroom stove.

Was that it? Did he want to see Hashirama?

Madara paused, knife still buried in the wood grain of the desk. He did, he decided. He missed the giant idiot. Mito’s drunken recounting of Hashirama’s bumbling had only served to worsen the ache in his chest, and Madara was _sick_ of it. Maybe if he actually spent more time with him – saw him in person, instead of this ideal he’d built up in his head – maybe then Madara would realize that Hashirama Senju was just a man, like any other. He’d be able to go back to ignoring him and his letters without feeling _guilty_ about it. He’d get over this sick, juvenile infatuation and everything would be fine.

_Have you ever fired a ’65 Spencer? I’d wager I’m a better marksman than you are. I’m free this Saturday if you’d like to see for yourself._

_\- M.U._

* * *

Nezumi bounced on the balls of her feet. She was dressed in one of her nicer gowns; her hair was actually pinned in place; her face was clean of any dirt or debris. The heels were pinching her toes together, but she didn’t even _care_ , because she had a _mission_. Clutched between two – clean! – hands was a letter from Mr. Madara Uchiha himself, addressed in his spiky handwriting to Mr. H Senju, and Nezumi was _thrilled_.

She was mentally running the numbers on the wager when the door to the estate opened and a remarkably average-looking, middle aged woman blinked at her.

“May I help you?” the woman asked.

Nezumi pushed the door further inwards and stepped over the threshold. “Yes, you may!” she said, holding the letter aloft like a prize. “Where’s Mr. Senju? The tall, handsome one! I have a _letter_ for him.” She brandished it with a flourish. “It’s from _Mr. Madara,_ ” she added with a wink, just in case this lady hadn’t caught on to the gravity of the situation.

The woman furrowed her brows, taking an affronted step backwards to avoid being trampled, then squinted closer at Nezumi’s face. “Oh,” she said, tone lowering. “You’re one of _them_. I’ll let Mr. Senju know you’re here.”

“ _I_ ,” Nezumi said, raising her chin proudly. “Will wait in the _parlor_.”

The woman deftly stepped between her and the enticingly open doorframe. “Mrs. Senju,” she called inside, glancing nervously back at Nezumi. “We have a – ahem. There’s a –”

“I heard,” Mito said from inside the parlor. “It’s fine, Mrs. Cooper. Go ahead and let her in. I don’t mind.”

Mrs. Cooper sighed, and with a final, suspicious glance at Nezumi, turned and began to head upstairs.

Nezumi marched through the entrance to the parlor like a commander disembarking a ship.

Mito was lounging on the couch next to the only window, staring despondently out across the grounds. There was a book lying open on her lap. She waved idly at Nezumi as she entered.

“Mrs. _Mito!_ ” Nezumi gasped, rushing forward. “You look so _beautiful_! What’s the occasion?”

Mito blinked, startled, as Nezumi all but collapsed at the side of the couch. She folded her arms over Mito’s skirts and rested her chin on them, smiling toothily. “The last time I saw you,” Nezumi continued. “You looked like a wet _sheep_. But look at you now! You look like a _princess_.”

Mito was caught somewhere between outrage and flattery. She decided on flattery, with the same steely determination that allowed her to ignore the way Hashirama looked when he talked about his business partner. “Thank you, Miss Nezumi.”

Nezumi’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, you remembered my name? Even after all that moonshine?”

“What’s this about moonshine?” came Hashirama’s laughing voice from the doorway. Mito snapped her book shut.

Nezumi whirled around, rising to her feet in a surprisingly smooth motion. “Mr. Hashirama Senju!” she said, snapping to attention. But for the dress and missing rifle, she was the very picture of a soldier reporting for duty. “Letter!” She thrust it towards him, arm straight as a rod.

Hashirama crossed the parlor in two easy strides and took it from her with a pleasant, “Why, thank you!”

Nezumi stared at him. Hard. Then down at the letter. Then back at him.

Hashirama got the picture. He broke the wax seal and looked down at the thickly clustered writing within. After a moment, a pleased blush spread over his cheeks.

The feral grin crawled back onto Nezumi’s face. Mito sighed and went back to staring out over the grounds.

“I suppose you’re here to wait for a response?” Hashirama said, looking up at Nezumi. Without waiting for her answer, he began moving back towards the parlor entrance. “Wait here, just a moment, please – just a second –” And then he was gone. Nezumi could hear rapid footsteps racing back upstairs.

Oh, she was definitely going to be making some money with this wager.

“Must you encourage this?” Mito said.

Nezumi resumed her place beside the couch. “You must understand, Mrs. Mito,” she said soothingly, smoothing down Mito’s silken skirts. “I have a _lot of money_ riding on this! My family has a bit of a wager going, you see.”

“I don’t need to know,” Mito said flatly. “I don’t _want_ to know.” She looked like she was going to say more, then her eyes fixed on Nezumi’s hair. “…My god, who did this to you? You poor creature.”

“ _I_ did!” Nezumi said proudly. She turned her head from side to side, for Mito to better admire her handiwork. “It’s all pinned down! It took me _so_ long to get it right, but –”

“No,” Mito said crisply.

Nezumi’s face fell. “No?”

Mito set her book on the couch beside her and gently took Nezumi’s head between her hands, inspecting the mass of pins and bobbins with a critical eye. “My dear,” she said in a voice that spoke of unknowable hardships. “This is _not_ how you should pin up your hair. Look at this. You look like a porcupine.”

Nezumi’s lip trembled.

“Stop that,” Mito said brusquely, rising to her feet. She pulled Nezumi with her. “I will not be seen having something like _this_ in my presence. Come along. I’ll show you how to do this properly.”

Hashirama was standing at the base of the stairs, holding a sealed envelope. “Miss Nezumi –”

“I will take that, husband. Thank you,” Mito neatly plucked the letter from his fingers as she slid past him. “Miss Nezumi will deliver it in good time, don’t worry.”

“I – of course,” Hashirama said, watching her drag the girl up the stairs. “Mito, what –”

“Never you mind, husband,” Mito called from the top of the stairs as she pushed Nezumi towards the bathroom. “I think we’re starting to get low on firewood, by the way.”

The sound of the door slamming shut echoed down the stairs. Hashirama found one of his hands had begun to pick at his shirtsleeve again, and forced it still.

Madara had sent him a _letter_. A letter asking him to –

Well. It was a nice day. Hashirama might as well go check on the firewood, like Mito said. 


	11. Chapter 11

_Behold, we count them happy which endure. Ye have heard of the patience of Izanami, and have seen the ends of Izanagi; that the Lord is very pitiful, and of tender mercy. – James 5:11_

Madara didn’t fret about what to wear on Saturday, because Madara had two suits, and they were both the exact same cut and color.

Hashirama, on the other hand, spent almost two hours that afternoon trying to decide what to wear, while Mito stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching on in disbelief.

“What do you think?” Hashirama asked, holding up a dark tweed ensemble. “Would this be too formal?” 

Mito looked at the coat. Her eyes slowly rose to Hashirama’s face. “You wore that to our wedding,” she said shortly.

Hashirama, taken aback, turned the suit around and peered at it. “Oh!” he said, laughing. “So I did! This probably _would_ be a bit much, wouldn’t it?”

“Probably,” Mito said. She let out a resigned sigh and crossed over to the wardrobe. “You’re going to… what, shoot guns?”

“Yes!” Hashirama said excitedly, turning to face her.

“It’s hot outside. Wear this, you’ll be fine.” She pulled a cotton jacket out of the wardrobe and held it out to him, jaw tight.

“Oh, thank you, Mito,” Hashirama tossed the coat onto the bed and accepted the jacket. “Are you… upset?”

“No,” Mito said firmly. She didn’t look at him. “You’re fine, Hashirama. Go have fun shooting guns.”

Hashirama took a hesitant step forward. When Mito didn’t move, he took another, and laid a hand on her arm, where she was gripping the door to the wardrobe. “Thank you for your help,” he said, smiling gently. “Once the brewery has finished construction, let’s take a trip somewhere. I know we didn’t get a proper honeymoon, so –”

Something seemed to break in Mito. She sagged slightly and said, “Sure. That would be nice.” She still didn’t look at him. “Thank you, Hashirama. Go on, now. Have fun.”

* * *

It was around 4pm, and the afternoon sun was casting dappled shadows through the swaying tree tops.

The walnut stock was warm in Madara’s hands as he slid the magazine into place. He pushed off of the table he’d been leaning against and strolled over to the small line chalked out on the dirt. Madara pulled the lever, cocked the hammer, and fired.

The broken glass bottle on the far fencepost exploded.

Madara ran through what he was going to say again. Hashirama would come from the south – at least, he would if he followed the directions Madara had sent him. They were there to shoot guns. Was Hashirama going to bring his own gun? Madara had brought more than enough ammo for both of them – not to mention glass bottles. There were two crates of broken or defective ones behind him, and he was sure Fumiko had more packed away on her farm to the east –

Madara shook his head roughly, hair whipping around his face. He was overthinking this. He levelled the gun at the far fence again and took aim.

“Hello!” came the jovial call from behind him.

Madara immediately froze. It took him a second to break the ice in his limbs enough to lower the gun and turn around, but when he did he saw Hashirama, arms looped over the wooden fence behind him. His chin was resting on his crossed wrists. He was smiling, and Madara was very suddenly, uncomfortably aware of the exact locations of his hands and feet. 

“Don’t you know better than to startle someone with a gun in their hands?” Madara said crossly, walking towards him. He set the gun down on the table and bent down to root through his bag. He might as well refill the ammo while he was over there.

Above him, Hashirama laughed, raising one hand up to rest his face on it. “You’re right, you’re right,” he said easily, eyes crinkling at the corners. “But you’re an exemplary marksman. You wouldn’t hit me!”

Madara stood up, box of bullets in his hand. He didn’t look at Hashirama as he sourly responded, “That’s not the _point_ , Mr. Senju.”

“I _told_ you to call me Hashirama!”

“Hashirama,” Madara said, rolling his eyes. He pulled the magazine out of the rifle – then made the mistake of looking up.

The table was right next to the fence. Madara was standing next to the table, bullet magazine in hand, and Hashirama was leaning on the fence. They were less than a foot apart, and Madara could see the laugh lines in Hashirama’s tan skin; he could see the short, smooth locks of hair that were escaping from Hashirama’s ponytail, coming down to frame his face; he could see the shadow of what could be freckles, cascading over his cheeks.

“Do you have freckles?” Madara asked blankly.

Hashirama started, as if broken from some reverie, and laughed again, standing upright and gripping the fence with both hands. “I don’t think so?” he said as he raised his eyebrows, one hand coming up to scratch at the side of his face.

“Never mind,” Madara said roughly, turning back to the gun. His mouth suddenly felt very dry. He should’ve brought liquor. He pulled a handful of bullets out of the box, then remembered he’d only fired one round. He dropped all but one and thumbed it into the butt of the gun, mouth twisting. Hashirama was watching his hands. “Have you ever fired one of these?” Madara asked brusquely, sliding the magazine back into place and locking it with a _click_.

“Never,” Hashirama said. “I’ve shot pistols before, and a front-loading rifle, but never a cavalry carbine.”

“It’s easy,” Madara said. “Come to the other side of the fence. I’ll show you.”

Instead of doing the reasonable thing, which was walking twenty paces to the left and opening the gate cut into the fence there, Hashirama steadied his grip on the fence. Madara watched, slack-jawed and terribly unsurprised, as he vaulted over it in a flash of white cotton. Madara tried to ignore the way his shirt pulled across his chest and tightened his grip on the gun.

Looking far too pleased with himself, Hashirama straightened his jacket and said, “Well, then! Shall we?”

Madara nodded towards the far fence. “See those bottles?”

Hashirama squinted theatrically, raising a hand to cover his eyes. “I do, indeed! Extras from your warehouse?”

“Something like that. Aim for the bottles.” He raised the gun, and, moving slowly so Hashirama could follow along with his dark hazelnut eyes, half-cocked the hammer, then lowered and snapped the lever back into place. Then he cocked the hammer again, aimed the gun, and fired.

Another bottle disappeared off the distant fence.

As the ringing died down, Hashirama said, “Nice shot!”

“Good eyes are a family trait.” Madara looked at him sideways through the tangle of his hair. “Do you want to try?”

Hashirama hesitated for a moment, then stepped forwards, taking the gun from him with his right hand.

“I assume you know the basics,” Madara said, stepping backwards.

Hashirama walked up to the smudged chalk line drawn in the dirt and readied his stance. It quickly became apparent that he did _not_ know the basics. Hashirama was going to knock out his own teeth if he fired it like that.

“Hashirama,” he said, stepping forward. “For the love of God – didn’t you say you’ve fired a rifle, before?” He rested a hand on Hashirama’s right arm and readjusted his grip. His other hand came up to Hashirama’s shoulder.

“It was a while ago,” Hashirama admitted, laughing.

“Your shoulder’s way too tense,” Madara said flatly. “And you’re holding it like it’s going to bite you. Here.” His hands slid along the cotton of Hashirama’s jacket, pulling the gun closer, adjusting it against the meat of his shoulder. Hashirama’s gaze was fixed on the distant target. Madara could see the tightness in his jaw.

“Just cock the hammer,” Madara said, fingers resting on top of the gun. “Then pull the lever, then shoot.” He paused. “Try to aim.”

Hashirama let out a puff of laughter. “You’re a bad teacher,” he said.

Madara was close enough to feel the rumble in his chest as he spoke. “You say that, but you haven’t even fired a shot, yet.” He stepped back, withdrawing his hands to his sides. His eyes traced the broad lines of Hashirama’s back as the other man cocked the gun.

The shot rang out across the clearing like a crack of thunder –

Hashirama slumped, dejected.

“Don’t worry,” Madara said, coming up to clap him on the shoulder. “It was just your first shot. I’d have been surprised if you hit anything.”

Hashirama turned to him, suddenly, long hair almost hitting Madara in the face. “You know,” he said, an impish grin lighting up his cheeks. “I think we should make a bet.”

Madara was startled. He was caught off guard - that’s why he was blushing. “What?” he asked. “What do you mean, a bet? You missed.”

“I know,” Hashirama lowered the gun and rested a hand on Madara’s shoulder, leaning in. “But I have a good feeling about my next shot! What do you say?”

Madara frowned at him suspiciously. “What are the terms of this bet?”

“What would you like?”

“I take it we’re not betting money?”

Hashirama laughed broadly, squeezing him by the shoulder. “I meant something with _stakes_!”

Madara rolled his eyes, pulling Hashirama’s hand off of him as he did so. “Rich bastard. Fine, let’s say… In the next six rounds, I bet you’ll miss at least half. If you do, I get…” Madara trailed off, mouth inadvertently twisting. His eyes travelled down to rest on Hashirama’s lips.

“There’s not much you’re at want for, is there?” Hashirama mused. “Oh, I know! You like brandy, right?” He’d probably divined this from the fact that Madara had stolen one of his best bottles the last time he was in his house, but neither of them mentioned that fact. “If you win, I’ll send you a crate of my family’s top-shelf brand. We have a distillery down south of here – you’ll like it, I promise!”

“Hm.” Madara crossed his arms, considering. “Alright. And if you make the shots?”

“Then you come to dinner with myself and Mito at our house.” Hashirama paused. “And Tobirama, too, I suppose.”

The half-smile dropped from Madara’s face. “No,” he said. “Absolutely not.” To stomach being in a room alone with Hashirama was bad enough – to have his _wife_ present? _And_ his atrocious brother? Out of the question.

Hashirama pouted. “Why _not_?”

“Give me a different offer,” Madara said flatly. “This bet is between you and me. Keep the stakes between us, as well.”

Hashirama heaved a mighty sigh, exasperatedly, and said, “Alright, _fine_ , how about this –” He paused, and chewed briefly on his lip. Madara’s eyes couldn’t help but track the motion, and he hated himself a little for it. “How about, if I win, you have to come visit me once a week for the next month?”

Madara frowned again. “How is that a prize? We’re business partners.”

Hashirama held up a finger in front of his face. “Weekly visits, no business! We’ll play parlor games or something, I don’t know. I don’t see you nearly often enough! I can’t come up with decent excuses to intrude on your time normally, so this will have to do.”

Madara sputtered indignantly, but Hashirama just nodded sharply, a knowing smile struggling to break through on the hard planes of his face, and turned back to the targets. He raised the rifle with easy familiarity.

30 seconds and six booming shots later, the far fence was completely cleared of bottles.

Madara stared at the broken glass glinting in the dirt, then slid his eyes back to Hashirama, who was cheerfully ejecting the spent magazine with practiced motions. “You fucking snake,” Madara said.

“I might have lied a little,” Hashirama said shamelessly, grinning broadly. “My father had a collection of rifles like this. We used to go shooting every weekend, back in New York.” He squeezed Madara’s arm as he passed by, walking back towards the table with a jaunty spring in his step.

Madara felt hot under his jacket. He was impressed, and he was _pissed_ , and he was pissed at himself for being impressed. “Hashirama,” he said bluntly, pulling off his jacket. “Put the gun down for a second.”

Hashirama set it on top of the table and turned around, eyebrows raised inquisitively. He saw Madara toss his jacket over the fence and his face brightened. “Oh, do you –”

Madara punched him in the jaw. It wasn’t a light punch, either. Hashirama staggered backwards, hand going up to touch his cheek. Then the grin came back in full, blinding force, and he stripped off his cotton jacket without hesitation. Then, as quick as a serpent, he seized Madara by the shoulders and threw him into the fence. The rough-hewn rails of the fence knocked the wind out of Madara’s lungs. He saw Hashirama’s fist sailing towards him through the humid summer air and ducked, ramming his shoulder into the other man’s wall of a torso as he did so.

They both tumbled to the ground, and then they were full-on wrestling in the dust. Hashirama’s hair immediately broke free from its tie, and Madara seized it without hesitation, yanking the other man’s head back. He wasn’t above fighting dirty, especially when it came to fighting a man as large as Hashirama Senju.

Hashirama laughed again, and _twisted_ – and the next thing Madara knew, he was lying face-down in the dirt, Hashirama wrenching his arm painfully high on his back, his long, chestnut brown hair pooling around them. They were both breathing heavy. Madara tensed, pulling against Hashirama’s iron grip – he couldn’t move an inch. Hashirama’s weight pressed down on him like a stone, and Madara, much to his horror, found that he was _not at all_ opposed to the sensation.

“You win,” he gasped, struggling to knock the other man off. “You win, you win. Get off of me.” This situation was rapidly devolving – Hashirama needed to move, _now_ , or things were about to get very awkward for both of them.

Hashirama immediately rolled to the side and clambered to his feet. “Well!” he said loudly. “That was a fun – ah, spirited bout of fisticuffs! I haven’t been in a good _brawl_ in ages, it’s quite the sport! Why –”

Madara remained where he was as Hashirama rambled. Madara waited for his breathing to return to normal, then sat up, pulling his hair back from his face.

Hashirama caught his eye and the rambling came to a stuttering halt. A long, thin silence trembled between them, and Madara swore he could see something dark and heady creep into the other man’s eyes as his lips parted –

“You have dirt on your face,” Hashirama said abruptly.

Madara scrubbed at it.

“No, no, it’s –” Hashirama knelt down, and before Madara knew what he was doing, he’d licked his thumb and was dragging it under one of Madara’s eyes.

“Are you fucking serious,” Madara said out loud, to no one in particular.

Hashirama flushed a dark red, raising his hands defensively. “I’m sorry, it’s just – you had –”

“Alright,” Madara got to his feet and made a show of deliberately brushing the dirt off his pants. “Come on, get up. We’re –” He took a deep breath as Hashirama stood, as well, then looked him in the eye and firmly said, “We’re going to pretend this never happened.”

“That’s fine with me,” Hashirama said with palpable relief. The stiches along the shoulder seam on his shirt had torn at some point in their scuffle. Madara didn’t mention it, and ducked around him, towards the table.

“So,” he said, determinedly. “Since I know you’re a lying piece of shit, and you _do_ actually know how to shoot a gun, we’re going to have another competition.”

“Does that mean you’re not going to come over?” Hashirama asked, leaning around Madara and staring up at him with round brown eyes.

Madara spared him a single glance and narrowed his own eyes in response. “I didn’t say that,” he said defensively. He thumbed the latch on the back of the gun and pulled the magazine free, pretending he didn’t see the pleased grin spreading over Hashirama’s face.

“Shall we make another bet for this one, as well?” Hashirama said, leaning back against the fence again as Madara began to slid bullets into the stock.

“What more could we possibly have to bet on?” Madara asked dryly.

Hashirama cocked his head. He hadn’t tied his hair back – Madara wasn’t even sure where the tie had gone – and it fell like liquid over his shoulders with the motion. “Oh, I’m sure I could think of a few things.”

“Think of them, then. I’m going to set up the targets.” He slid the magazine in place and locked it with a _click_ , then bent down for one of the crates of cracked glass bottles.

Neither of them retrieved their jackets. The sweat made their shirts cling to their torsos – Hashirama soon pulled off his waistcoat, as well, laughing at the buttons that had been ripped loose in their fight.

Over the course of the next few hours, Madara missed one single shot. Hashirama didn’t miss any.

* * *

“ _Must_ you do that in here?” Tobirama asked frostily, glaring at Mito over his ledgers.

Mito threaded the strand of blue through the needle, and calmly, without looking up, replied, “The light is best in your office, dear brother-in-law.”

“I’m trying to _work_.”

“I’m sure you are,” Mito said. She stuck the needle into the thin white cloth and deftly tied it off. “Speaking of work,” she continued, plucking at the strand. “Have you given any thought to getting married, yourself?”

Tobirama narrowed his eyes at her. 

“You won’t be young forever,” Mito said, adjusting her grip on the embroidery hoop. The cloth trailed along her voluminous skirts. “And it would give you a good reason to begin construction on a house of your own. With your own office,” she added pointedly.

“I have neither the time nor interest to pursue marriage right now,” Tobirama said dismissively. “Though I’m sure the experience has greatly enriched my brother’s life –” Mito’s gentle smile grew tense around the edges. “–I am much more concerned with getting our business up and running than I am with wasting time with romantic pursuits.”

“Of course,” Mito demurred. The needle punctured the cloth with a dull _pop_. “You’re very busy. I’m sure something will fall into place, though. The Lord does work in mysterious ways.”


	12. Chapter 12

_This I say then, Walk in the Sight of Our Lord’s Sharingan, and ye shall not fulfil the lust of the flesh. - Galatians 5:16_

Mito wished she still had it in her to be surprised. Her husband came home in the late hours of the evening, jacket pristine, but waistcoat and shirt stained and torn beyond repair, his hair in disarray, stinking of mud and gunpowder and pipe smoke – yes, Mito really, really wished she could still be surprised.

Hashirama had just laughed and waved her off when she had asked what happened. Had he and Madara had some kind of fight? Was he injured? But no. Apparently he was _fine_. So fine, in fact, that he took it upon himself to go restock their firewood stores – even though it was almost 11pm. Even though they had enough firewood to last through January, at this point.

Mito laid in bed, awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant _thud_... _thwack_ coming from outside. Part of her wished he’d just been an alcoholic. That would have been easier to manage, she mused silently, listening to the axe cleave through another log.

Ten minutes later, Hashirama showed no signs of slowing. Mito got out of bed, and began to get dressed. She did not wear a nice gown. She did not wear her nice shoes. She barely even bothered to lace her corset. She pulled her hair into a pile on her head and pinned it there, then she made her way down to the front door.

The moon was bright tonight. _Thwack,_ sang the axe from around the corner of the house. Mito didn’t bother telling Hashirama that she’d be gone for a few hours. The way he was going, he’d be at this for a while.

Some small part of her said that it was probably a bad thing that she actually remembered the way to the Sharingan Breweries warehouse. It was a good few miles away from their estate – a few miles, but not too many. Mito walked down the long gravel path, then along the dirt road, then into the woods.

The barn loomed before her like a fortress in the night. There were lights on inside – there always seemed to be lights on inside. Smoke puffed serenely out of the steel pipes on the roof.

She reached the door on the side and rapped politely on the painted fan. There was no response. She opened it anyway.

The warehouse was bustling with activity. Someone at a nearby table glanced up at her through a tangle of pitch-black hair, then turned around and hollered, “ _Boss!_ We got a Senju out here!” There was an immediate pause in activity around the barn floor. Several heads turned towards Mito as she stepped in through the doorway, closing it behind her.

Someone else shouted, “It’s the woman, boss!” The Uchihas staring at her seemed to lose interest at this, turning back to their work with mild grumbles.

Mito lifted her chin and waited.

The door to Madara’s office swung open. He stared at her across the warehouse floor, then sighed resignedly, his entire torso heaving with the motion. He snagged a bottle straight out of the hands of one of his cousins and waved her over, disappearing back into the small room.

Mito weaved in between the maze of tables and crates.

“Hello, Mrs. Senju.”

“Evening, Mrs. Senju.”

“He fuck up again so soon, Mrs. Senju?”

This last one prompted a small chorus of laughter. Mito just sighed and waved as she made her way towards Madara’s office.

Madara was pouring them both glasses of liquor when she reached the door. “Close it behind you,” he said. “You’re not staying here for three days again, by the way.”

Mito scoffed as she pulled the door shut. “As if I would want to. Your warehouse _stinks_.”

“I should start charging you for this,” Madara said flatly.

“Probably,” Mito agreed, pulling the other chair closer to his desk. “So, are we going to talk about it?”

“About what?”

“Your little outing with my husband. He looks like he fell in a pig pen. And then got in a fight with one of them.” The liquor burned as she took a large gulp.

Madara lifted his own glass. “In that case, no.”

“He was out chopping firewood when I left. He’s probably still out there right now.”

“Chopping _firewood_?” Madara asked, squinting at her incredulously. He twisted around to stare at the battered clock on his wall. “It’s… almost 1am.”

Mito took another large gulp, then held her glass out to be refilled. “I know.”

“He does this often, then?”

“Almost as often as he meets with you.”

Madara looked uncomfortable. “Oh,” he said, and drained his glass.

“Mmhmm.” Mito drank.

“He’s a liar, by the way,” Madara said, suddenly. “And he’s good with a rifle.”

“Did he tell you he wasn’t?” Mito asked dryly, settling back in her chair.

“He led me to believe he wasn’t,” Madara said flatly. “He’s also a gambler.”

“Do you think you’re telling me some dark secret about my husband?” Mito asked, raising an eyebrow. “I’m married to him. He likes to make bets on which sermons Mr. Small will use every other week with Tobirama. He cheats at cards, too. Just a warning.”

Madara snorted and refilled their glasses. They got to the bottom of the first bottle, then Madara went out to get another – a jug, this time. The operations in the warehouse gradually wrapped up for the night. Occasionally one of Madara’s cousins would poke their head in through the office door as they left, a flash of wild black hair and a quick, “G’night, boss – Mrs. Senju –” before the door shut again. One by one, the lights in the warehouse beyond were snuffed out, and then the only remaining lamp was the one lodged in the corner of Madara’s desk.

Mito was slumped over the same desk, hair falling out of its loose pin-up. “I just,” she said sadly, waving her half-empty glass in the air. “I just don’t _understand_.”

Madara tipped the liquor down his throat and said nothing. His feet were propped up on the other end of the desk.

“I _know_ ,” Mito said, gesturing pointedly at herself. “I _know_ I’m not ugly. So why won’t he touch me?”

“Oh, we’re talking about this again?” Madara said as he poured himself another drink.

“I’m gorgeous,” Mito said. “Down in Louisiana, men _loved_ me. I had more suitors than any other woman in New Orleans!”

“I’m sure you did,” Madara said blandly, refilling her glass.

“But I come up here and – and –” Mito took a long draught mid-sentence, spilling some of the liquor on the desk as she did so. “All of the men up here, they have something _wrong_ with them,” she stressed. Her words were beginning to slur together.

Madara leaned over, feet thudding onto the floor, and collected the papers on his desk into a pile, then set it on top of one of the bookshelves. After a moments consideration, he did the same thing with the knives.

“ _Hashirama_ won’t touch me. Tobirama… I wouldn’t let him touch me even if he _wanted_ to, but I don’t think that man’s ever had a sexual thought in his _life_.” Mito let the glass droop in her fingers for a moment, then solidified her grip and pointed at Madara. “He reads the Bible in the evening, once he’s done with the affairs of business for the day. He reads it for _entertainment_ , Madara.”

“Inhuman,” Madara agreed, refilling her glass. He looked at his for a long moment, then slung the jug over his arm and drank straight from the mouth.

“I… have to fix it,” she said, with the sort of determination only the deeply inebriated possessed. “I am going to fix _all_ of it.” She paused, then lolled her head back towards Madara, glass dangling from her fingers. “Not sssh – not sure what to do about… you, though,” she said, frowning. “You look like you’ve never had a – a sexual thought in your life, _either_.”

“Oh, no,” Madara said, refilling it again. “I have. I’d love for your husband to fuck me until I couldn’t remember my own name, for starters.” He paused, stomach dropping straight through the floor, still holding the jug above her glass. Did he really just – right in front of Hashirama’s _wife_ –

She snorted into her cup. “You’re such a _funny_ man.”

Madara drowned his panic in another glug of moonshine. Then he stood – waveringly – and went to go get another bottle. Hopefully, by the end, she wouldn’t remember this conversation. _Hopefully_ , neither would he.

* * *

True to his word, Madara didn’t let Mito stay there for three days. He did let her fall asleep that night under his desk, though, amid a pile of empty bottles and jars.

Sometime early Sunday morning, Hikaku came into the office, took one look at Madara – who had fallen asleep holding a knife, slumped in the corner – and Mito, under the desk, then turned around and went back home.

Privately, Hikaku was just glad to have the day off.

* * *

Hashirama had been concerned when he’d discovered Mito wasn’t in bed, of course! But he’d seen her earlier that evening, and by that point it was almost 3am. He was sure she’d be back before morning – maybe she’d just gone for a quick walk? He did that sometimes, to clear his head.

Of course, when she wasn’t back by breakfast, he’d been much more concerned, but Tobirama’s flat insistence that she was _fine_ helped assuage his worries. She wasn’t even back for church, which was _alarming_ , to say the least – Mito was at least as devout as he was! But Tobirama looked increasingly annoyed every time Hashirama brought it up, so he silently accompanied him to the Sunday service without his wife.

After the service, as the carriage trundled along the gravel drive towards their estate, Hashirama frowned and said, “I’m going to go look for her.”

“Fine,” Tobirama replied. “You might try going north, first.”

“North?” Hashirama said bemusedly. “You think she went to visit Madara again?”

“’Visit,’” Tobirama repeated. “Yes, brother. I think she went to go _visit_ his distillery at one o’clock in the morning.”

“I can’t say I blame her!” Hashirama said as the carriage pulled to a stop. “It was a beautiful night out, last night. And the path to the warehouse does cut through a rather pleasant strip of forest!”

Hashirama heard the soft _smack_ as Tobirama’s palm met his forehead and laughed as he disembarked the carriage. He pulled his off his gloves as he approached the front doorstep – and he stopped, as he could swear he smelled _pipe_ smoke –

The door flung inwards and Hashirama suddenly found himself face-to-face with a _very_ underdressed Madara Uchiha. He was in nothing but stained shirtsleeves, rolled up to his elbows, and the same pants that he had worn yesterday – the same pants, Hashirama knew, because he’d been the one to grind them into the dirt like that, and _wow_ , Hashirama didn’t need to be thinking of their last scuffle like that, not right now –

Madara’s fist connected with his jaw and Hashirama, caught completely by surprise, went sailing. He landed in a tangle of limbs on the short-cropped grass.

There was a loud _bang_ and the doorframe next to Madara’s head erupted in a shower of wooden splinters.

“Get out of my house,” Tobirama said coldly from the bottom of the carriage steps, pistol levelled at Madara.

Madara said nothing and took off at a run down the gravel path, hair streaming behind him like a dark cloud. Tobirama kept the pistol trained on him until he was past the gate.

“You brought your gun to _church_?” Hashirama demanded, rolling onto his elbows.

“Of course,” Tobirama replied stiffly, tucking it back into the holster at his hip. He was glaring down the gravel road, lip curled in a snarl.

Hashirama clambered to his feet, feeling his jaw tenderly. “I wonder what Madara was doing here,” he said, turning to look mournfully out at the trees.

“Probably stealing more of our liquor,” Tobirama said in a clipped tone, walking around Hashirama towards the front door. “Mrs. Mito is probably upstairs, brother. If I had to guess.”

Hashirama took the stairs two at a time – the smell of pipe smoke permeated the entire central foyer, much to Tobirama’s loudly voiced distaste – and skidded to a halt in front of his open bedroom door.

Mito was sprawled over the bedcovers, hair wild, dress askew. She was snoring slightly. Her shoes were tucked neatly under the edge of the bedframe.

“Mito!” Hashirama said, crouching next to the bedside. “Are you alright?”

“She’s asleep,” Tobirama said from the hallway. He wrinkled his nose again. “From the _smell_ , she’ll probably be like this for a while. You might as well leave her be.”

Hashirama pouted down at her. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to go drink with Madara? I would’ve come along!”

Tobirama sighed loudly and walked away. Hashirama heard his door shut down the hall and stood, stretching. His jaw felt sore. He wondered how long Madara had been waiting for them to come back – no more than a few hours, surely. His room smelled like pipe smoke, as well, and something painful constricted in his chest. Hashirama walked around the bed, fingers trailing along the duvet, and the unbidden thought that Madara had been here, in his bedroom, rose to the front of his mind. Madara, in nothing but his undershirt –

It was hot in here, Hashirama decided. He opened the window latch and began to strip out of his stuffy suit. He was looking forward to autumn! Hashirama rolled up his sleeves and rubbed his hands.

He might as well go do some paperwork, he thought as he stared absently out at the forest in the distance. Yes, paperwork was good. It was good to keep busy, even on the Lord’s day! He should go talk to Tobirama about that ribbon-cutting ceremony. They’d need to schedule one soon, after all!

* * *

Madara staggered back into the warehouse and cursed loudly. There was no-one there to witness him crumple over one of the tables, clutching his head with both hands.

“That _fuck_ ,” he hissed. “ _God_ , I’m such a fucking idiot – yes, go spend _time_ with him – that’ll fix this –” He cut himself off sharply and rose back to his feet, unbuttoning his shirt as he stormed through to his office. “Go drink with his _wife_ , I’m sure that’ll make it better – fucking _idiot_ –”

Madara pulled his shirt off with harsh motions and wadded it into a ball as he kicked open the door to his room. He threw it into a corner, followed by his equally-stained undershirt – god, he _reeked­_ – sat down on his bed, and began unlacing his boots.

He was in deep. He was in way, way too deep. Madara ripped his boots off and threw them on top of the pile of clothes in the corner, then let himself fall down onto the mattress with an explosive sigh, staring up at the dark ceiling above.

He was going to see Hashirama Senju. He was going to see him once a week, apparently, because even though Hashirama Senju was a deceptive, manipulative _fuck_ Madara wasn’t going to be the one to break the terms of their bet – and they were business partners, besides, so they were going to see each other in that context, as well. Not to mention the business of actually getting a city established here – why had he agreed to this? Why had he agreed to any of it?

Madara ground the palms of his hands into his eyes and groaned audibly. He knew exactly why he’d agreed to it – Hashirama’s wide, dark brown eyes and his long, smooth hair. Hair that Madara now knew the texture of, thanks to their impromptu brawl yesterday –

– and _that_ was dangerous territory, Madara thought grimly, because if he started thinking about that brawl, he would start thinking about how Hashirama’s weight had pinned him so _easily_ to the ground, how his legs had tangled with Madara’s, how firm his grip had been on Madara’s wrists as he twisted them behind his back –

Madara ran his hands down his face, remembered the hot rush of Hashirama’s breath on his neck, and decided, _what the hell, why not._ He’d been sinning since Mito stumbled through his door last night. The Lord forgives, after all.

Madara thumbed open the buttons on his pants and slid his fingers under the coarse wool.


	13. Chapter 13

_Let thy fountain be blessed: and rejoice with the wife of thy youth. – Proverbs 5:18_

The third time Mito appeared at the warehouse’s door, it was 7pm on a Thursday.

Madara sent everybody home early. Then, over the next seven hours, he and Mito drained an entire barrel of moonshine.

At 2am, he was lying flat on his back on the barn floor, listening to Mito whine about her husband, and decided, _yes, he should be charging Hashirama for this_. He staggered to his feet – the entire warehouse spun alarmingly around him – and fell through the door to his office with a clatter.

It turned out invoices were just as easy to write when he was shitfaced as they were when he was sober.

* * *

If Hashirama was surprised to see the invoice for four dollars’ worth of moonshine stuffed into Mito’s pocket when they discovered her in bed the next morning, he didn’t show it. He cheerfully signed off a check and handed it Mrs. Cooper to be delivered with the mail the following day.

* * *

_Mr. M Uchiha:_

_The ribbon cutting ceremony for the newly incorporated City of Konoha will take place at 3pm on the 5 th of August at the Church of Holy Sacrament. My brother is quite insistent that you attend. I must concur in this case – as head of the Uchiha clan, your presence will be required. _

_Cordially,_

_T. Senju_

* * *

Sweat glistened on the horse’s dappled gray flanks as it thundered across the lawn behind the Senju estate. Madara’s jet black hair ripped out of its ribbon as he tore a blazing path over the rippling green grass.

Hashirama laughed, clapping a hand to his forehead. “Incredible!” he called. “How are you even doing that?”

Madara slowed the horse from its breathtaking gallop down to a canter, then a brisk trot, steering it back towards the stable. He was laughing, too, his smile a snaggle-toothed snarl across his face.

“Do you really not know how to steer a horse with your legs?” Madara called, raising both hands as he approached. “How can you hold a gun if you’re fucking around with reins the whole time?”

“I generally don’t need to _shoot a gun_ and ride a horse at the same time, Madara!”

“No?” Madara folded his arms over his chest as the horse cut neat circles around him. He was just plain showing off at this point.

“ _No_ ,” Hashirama said emphatically, laughing again. “Let me out, let me out – oh, God, I just had a brilliant idea, Madara, let’s _race_ –”

* * *

It was Monday, five days before the ribbon-cutting ceremony on the steps of the Church of Holy Sacrament, and Mito was sitting on a stool in the middle of a wide bathroom, wrapped in a large brown towel. She was crying.

Mrs. Cooper sat on the edge of the still-full bathtub, one hand rubbing Mito on the back, the other holding the shampoo bottle up to the light. “It seems they delivered the wrong one, Mrs. Mito,” she said sympathetically. She turned and cast a critical eye at the girl’s still-damp hair. “It could be worse.”

Mito covered her face in her hands and let out another choked sob.

“There, there. At least you still _have_ hair.” Mrs. Cooper turned the bottle around and tsk’d softly to herself, then squinted back at Mito’s hair.

“God, I look hideous,” Mito said, distraught. “Look at this – this is permanent, isn’t it?”

“Until it grows back out, I should think so.” Mrs. Cooper carded her fingers through Mito’s hair, inspecting it closely. “Mrs. Mito, the best advice I can offer at this point is that we either cut it all off –” Mito let out a strangled whimper at this. “– _or_ we simply apply the rest of the bottle and make the best of it.” She rested a hand on Mito’s shoulder and looked at her kindly. “You’re a beautiful young woman, Mrs. Mito. This is hardly the worst fate that could have come about from using the wrong bottle of chemicals.”

Mito took in a shaking breath and wiped her face with the edge of the towel. “Well,” she said, sniffling. “I am _certainly_ not going to attend the ribbon-cutting ceremony in a wig. We’ll apply the rest of the dye, and I’ll just –” She waved a hand in the air. Her attempt to signify a blasé attitude was undercut by the trembling in her lip. “It’ll be a fashion statement,” she said. 

Several hours later, Mrs. Cooper was helping Mito into an evening dress. Mito was braiding her hair into a loose twist over her shoulder when a knock sounded at the bathroom door.

“Mito?” came Hashirama’s voice. “Are you alright? I thought I heard crying earlier…”

Mito took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. Mrs. Cooper took a step back, hands folding in her skirts as she did so.

Mito opened the door to the bathroom.

* * *

Madara took a drag through his pipe. “But what can they _offer_ us?”

“Money,” came Hikaku’s flat answer. “Lots of money.”

Madara rolled his eyes. “Sure, but that isn’t comparable to the open access we’d be giving _them_ ,” he said. “Not to mention the greater risk of working with their organization.”

Hikaku made another mark on the ledger spread over Madara’s desk. “If you don’t want me to contact them, I won’t. But they’re going to give us _good cash_ to send our liquor up north. That Senju brewery’s going to be finished soon. We’ll need the markets.”

“I know, I…” Madara growled. He chewed on the pipe. “Fine, whatever,” he said, pulling the pen out of Hikaku’s indignant grasp. “I’ll write the letter. You can get it to them?”

“I’ll make sure it gets to them, yes.”

* * *

They were walking through the garden behind the estate. Hashirama was staring – he knew he was staring, but he couldn’t help it.

Mito had black hair. Mito had dark, pitch-black hair. She clearly wasn’t happy with it – she’d said something about it clashing with her skin-tone – but all Hashirama could see was the way it fell down the sides of her face, and it almost reminded him of –

“You do look wonderful,” he said again.

Mito shot him a dour look from under her eyelashes. “So you’ve said, husband.”

Hashirama laughed, awkwardly, raising a hand to scratch at the back of his neck. He suddenly paused in his tracks, his leather shoes crunching the fine gravel. “Hey, Mito,” he said softly, catching her by the hand. It was evening. They’d taken dinner an hour or so before. The sky was beginning to turn a dusty purple. Tobirama was at the brewery, doing paperwork with Mr. Porter. “Mito,” Hashirama said again, a smile edging its way onto his face.

Mito stopped, looking down at their clasped hands. She looked baffled. “Yes?”

Hashirama stepped closer, his eyes sweeping over the coal-black locks that framed her face. “I…” he trailed off, one hand coming up to touch her, gently, on the jaw. There was a distant look in his eyes.

Then he kissed her.

The kiss itself wasn’t anything special – it was barely more than a slight brush of their lips – but the shock that hit Mito was so strong she almost fainted.

They’d been married for almost three months. In that time, Hashirama has kissed her three times. Once was at their wedding; the second time, their wedding night. The third time was initiated by Mito, one week into their marriage. She never did it again.

Hashirama brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, and even though it was _very_ clear that his mind was somewhere else, Mito couldn’t help but lean into the motion.

“Would you,” Hashirama started to say. He laughed softly, breathily, and said. “Tonight, would you –”

“Yes,” Mito said, eyes wide.

Hashirama kissed her again, tongue sweeping over her bottom lip; his hand came up to pull at the ribbon at the end of her braid.

Mito laughed, pulling back. “Out here, Hashirama? Really?”

Hashirama chased after her lips, catching her face between his hands. “No-one’s watching,” he murmured, and pressed his mouth to hers again.

Mito leaned into the kiss – what was this, the third one? In the span of five minutes? She felt breathless and heady – the girl she’d been not four months ago would have died laughing, seeing how easily she was flustered now. But who could blame her? She’d been all but starved of affection ever since marrying into this family.

Part of her wanted to ask from where in Hashirama came this sudden surge of affection towards her – but an even bigger part of her knew, with iron-clad certainty, that she didn’t really want to know. She pulled the ribbon out of her hair and combed her fingers through the braid – her black hair spilled over her shoulders and down her back like crude oil.

Hashirama said, “ _Oh_ ,” in a tone Mito hadn’t even known he was capable of making.

The light was fading fast around them – Hashirama took her by the wrist and pulled her back towards the house. They raced up the steps – Hashirama all but picked her up when they reached the second floor – and crashed through the door to their shared bedroom. Hashirama’s mouth was hot on her neck; his hand tangled in her hair.

He didn’t seem all that concerned with helping her out of her clothes, Mito noted with dull annoyance – but that was fine. She managed to undo the buttons down the back of her dress well enough by herself, but she was going to need another pair of hands for the corset.

Mito pulled away, briefly, and took in the sight of Hashirama’s wide, dark eyes and disheveled hair. “I need your help unlacing my corset,” she said, and Hashirama blinked as if only just realizing where he was.

“Oh,” he said. “Of course.”

There was neither passion nor urgency in his movements as he pulled the corset strings loose on her back. As she pulled the corset free and stepped out of her dress, his fingers ran along the soft lines of her shoulders and his mouth brushed the curve of her neck.

“Let’s do it like this,” Hashirama said into her skin, brushing Mito’s hair to the side and kissing along the bumps in her spine.

Mito turned around, eyebrows drawn. “You don’t want to look at me?”

Hashirama immediately backtracked. “It’s not – I don’t – I didn’t mean it like _that_ ,” he said. His ears were turning red.

Her husband didn’t even want to look at her. Another indignity to add to the pile, but fine. Mito drew in a breath through her nose and said, “Fine. However you’d like.”

Hashirama ran his hand down her arm until it covered Mito’s. “Are you sure? We can –”

“If that’s how you want it, then that’s how we’ll do it,” Mito said. She met his eyes, smiled, then reached up and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

Hashirama kissed her again. He shucked out of his waistcoat, his shirts – one of his hands slid down to rest on her thigh –

Mito’s back hit the covers as Hashirama’s knee sank into the mattress. He pulled his hair free from its tie – it fell over his shoulders in a curtain of amber walnut. There was a flash of something in his eyes, and Mito wondered briefly if he wanted her to pull on it – did he like that sort of thing? But Hashirama didn’t ask, and she didn’t offer.

The distant look was back in his eyes.

* * *

Tobirama opened the door to the estate and stepped inside, hanging his hat on the hook beside the door.

A loud, throaty moan floated down the stairs.

Tobirama removed his hat from the rack and left.

* * *

Hashirama slept well that night. Incredibly well! No dreams, no restless energy stirring his limbs, no ache behind his ribs – Hashirama woke the next morning feeling _great_.

When he opened his eyes and saw a tangled black mess of hair and smooth, pale skin next to him he almost had a heart attack.

Mito groaned and screwed her eyes shut. “Wha…”

She looked adorable. Hashirama laughed and leaned over, kissing her on the forehead. “You look like a hedgehog, Mito.”

Mito glared at him from under her coal-tar locks. This only made Hashirama laugh again, drawing her close for a long, deep kiss.


	14. Chapter 14

_Ah, you who hide deep from the Lord your counsel, whose deeds are in the dark, and who say, “Who sees us? Who knows us?” But Our Lord’s Sharingan sees all; and through him is your soul lain bare. -_ _Isaiah 29:15_

The week leading up to the ribbon cutting ceremony was very awkward for Tobirama.

Sure, if anyone asked him – which they didn’t – he was happy for Hashirama. Of course he was. But they were just so _loud_. He spent a grand total of one night listening to bangs, thuds, and _moans_ emanate from their locked room down the hall, then got up, put on his robe, and began drafting a letter to Mr. Porter.

There were many reasons to have a bedroom built into the administrative offices at the brewery, after all.

* * *

The day of the ribbon cutting ceremony dawned bright and clear.

Hashirama and Tobirama both wore crisp black suits and snug ties. Mito’s still-jet-black hair was pinned in an elaborate coiffure, curling around her jaw. She was wearing a beautiful green silk dress. The servants, who were also attending the ceremony, were dressed in their Sunday best.

Hashirama was in high spirits, little to anyone’s surprise. Mito, who had only been growing increasingly aggravated as the week wore on, was sitting stiffly beside him in the carriage, lips pressed tightly together as it pulled into town.

There was a large crowd already milling on the road near the church. Everyone from the surrounding area was present: the entire Uchiha clan had gathered, a sea of ragged black manes and loping gaits; the non-Uchiha farmers lingered together in uneasy clusters near the edges of the crowd; the pastor, Mr. Small, was presiding over a group of shareholders and landowners from the surrounding area. They stood at the top of the church steps, behind the bright red ribbon, laughing and shaking hands. There were other men, too – thin, reedy men with loud voices and quick pencils that clung to the wealthier visitors like barnacles.

“Reporters,” Tobirama muttered, leaning over to Hashirama. He seemed grimly pleased to see them there, in the same way a surgeon would be pleased to see a new tray of scalpels before starting an operation.

Madara wasn’t among the shareholders at the top of the steps. Hashirama futilely scanned the crowd – but if Madara was present, he was well-camouflaged here.

“Mrs. Cooper, we’ll be proceeding with the assumption that dinner tonight will go as planned,” Tobirama was saying in a low voice. “Barring some horrific accident during this event, at the conclusion of the ceremony you and Mr. Cooper will take the carriage back to the estate and await our arrival with the Mayviews. They will no doubt have guests of their own –”

Hashirama stopped listening. They were having dinner with stockholders and public officials again tonight – this was nothing new. He furrowed his brow. Where was Madara?

The carriage pulled to a stop. The crowd parted around the snorting horses, making room for the Senju entourage to disembark. As they made their way towards the church steps, a small black blur rocketed towards Mito, almost colliding with Tobirama.

It was Nezumi. She latched onto Mito’s arm with a shark-toothed smile.

Tobirama glowered, hand instinctively going to his hip – Hashirama firmly took him by the elbow and dragged him towards the church.

“Mr. Senju!” came the booming voice of Cyprus Mayview. “It’s been far too long, how are you –”

As they followed the men down the short gravel path, amidst the milling crowd, Nezumi tugged at Mito’s dress until she could whisper in her ear. “You look like one of _us_!” she giggled.

Mito’s lips puckered like she’d just swallowed a lemon. “I’ve been trying not to think about it,” she responded coldly.

Nezumi cackled and released her, bouncing back into the crowd with a wave.

There were speeches; there were self-congratulatory gestures of thanks; there were promises of new economic development for the town and its citizens. Hashirama made a speech; Tobirama made a speech; Cyprus made a speech that was matched in its bombasity only by its length; and then, at the end of the ceremony, there was a motion to cut the ribbon.

A small ripple went through the group at the top of the steps.

Tobirama checked his pockets. Hashirama began to laugh incredulously. No one had brought scissors. How, amidst all this planning, had they forgotten to bring scissors?

There was a tap on Hashirama’s shoulder. He looked down to see a small knife with a leather-wrapped handle being proffered to him at his elbow. He looked up –

Madara Uchiha was standing behind him, leaning on the door to the church, dressed in the same black wool suit that he always wore. No one had seen him arrive. There was a small smile playing around the edges of his lips.

Hashirama’s heart skipped a beat. The ache that had been missing the past week came back in full, punishing force – Hashirama was breathless and dizzy, and he opened his mouth to say –

“Ah, excellent,” Tobirama said, taking the knife. He turned back to the crowd and waved it at the reporters, before slicing neatly through the ribbon. A smattering of polite applause broke out among the onlookers.

“Hello,” Hashirama said quietly to Madara. He couldn’t help the smile that had taken over his face.

“Hello,” Madara responded, black eyes surveying the swarming mass of the crowd before them. “Did I hear something about Mrs. Senju joining my clan, earlier?”

“You did not,” Mito said crisply, materializing next to Hashirama. “Hello, Mr. Uchiha. Hashirama, the photographer is setting up the camera.”

Madara’s eyes widened a little as he took in the sight of her coal-black hair. They drifted from her to Hashirama, and one of his eyebrows rose a little higher on his forehead.

Hashirama blushed, although he had no idea why. Laughing sheepishly, he turned to Mito and said, “Thank you, Mito! I’ll be right there.”

She nodded, and with a final, tight smile at Madara, descended the steps towards the side of the building, rejoining the group of shareholders that had moved there. The crowd around them was dispersing – the carriage that had brought the Senju household was beginning to depart back to the estate, so that the servants could begin preparing for dinner. The mass of Uchihas gradually began to either filter into the bar across the road or disappear back into the tree line.

“Will you join us for dinner tonight?” Hashirama asked Madara, one hand coming up to clap him on the arm. His hand lingered on the coarse wool.

“No,” Madara said blithely. “I’m going back to my warehouse and drinking. I’ve had enough civil society for the week.” He paused. “Besides, if I have to hear one more word come out of Cyprus Mayview’s mouth I might end up doing something I regret.”

“You don’t seem like the sort to have many regrets,” Hashirama teased, giving the sleeve he was still holding a light squeeze. Madara’s arm was like an iron band beneath it.

“Don’t I?” Madara said dryly, eyes tracking over Hashirama’s face. He snorted and shook his head. “The photographer’s waiting on you,” he said, nodding back towards the group behind them. They did look impatient.

“When are you coming over next?” Hashirama asked, releasing his bicep. “You’re not going to break our deal, are you?”

Madara ducked his head to scratch behind one ear. “Soon,” he said finally.

“ _When_?” Hashirama pressed.

“Hashirama!” Tobirama called. “Come _on_.”

Madara gave him a light shove. “Go,” he said.

Hashirama lingered, reluctant, then finally descended the short steps. Madara watched him go with onyx eyes, then turned and began to head towards the trees.

* * *

“Hashirama,” Mito caught his arm as the photographer began packing away his camera. “I won’t be home for dinner tonight.”

Hashirama blinked in surprise. “Is something wrong?” he said.

Mito shook her head. “No, not at all,” she said serenely. “I am going to be spending time with Nezumi this afternoon –” At this, Nezumi appeared behind her, as if summoned magically by her words. “– and I would assume Tobirama prefer we not do so when we have guests over.”

Nezumi craned her head around Mito until she saw Tobirama, who was deep in conversation with Joanne Keeling. She caught his eye and winked coquettishly. Tobirama’s lip curled in disgust.

“That would probably be best,” Hashirama said, observing this display. He clasped Mito’s hand with both of his and said, “Do try to be home soon, though? I do get worried when you stay out too late.”

Mito rolled her eyes. “Of course, husband,” she said, pulling away. “I’ll see you later.”

“Have fun, you two!” Hashirama smiled cheerfully at them and turned back to the crowd.

* * *

Mito walked alongside Nezumi as they strolled through the woods, away from the church.

“So…” Nezumi said, dragging out the sound. She reached up and plucked at one of the shiny pins binding Mito’s black hair in place. “I’m _flattered_ –”

Mito batted her hand away. “It was _not_ intentional,” she snapped, head held high. “If I could change it, I _would_. This color looks dreadful on me. Look at how sallow my skin looks.”

Nezumi trotted in front of her, twisting to avoid being hit by a tree branch. “You _do_ look a little sickly,” she mused, cupping her chin in one hand. Her necklace swung wildly as she spun around. “I bet your husband liked it, though!” Her cackling laughter echoed off of the treetops.

Mito groaned, rubbing at her eyes as she followed Nezumi deeper into the forest. “No,” she said firmly. “I’m not having this conversation until I’m four bottles deep in that _swill_ you call liquor.”

* * *

Three hours and four bottles of cheap liquor later, Mito was sitting on the floor in the middle of the Sharingan Breweries warehouse. She was surrounded by a congregation of Uchihas from the hills – they’d come in from out of town to celebrate the ribbon-cutting ceremony, and celebrating was what they intended to do. Nezumi was scampering around the edge of the barn, cash and coins exchanging hands. There was a predatory gleam in her eyes.

For many, the current source of spectacle was not the half-dressed noblewoman getting wasted on a barn floor, but rather their taciturn clan head, who was in a state of equal undress, and slamming back shots of whiskey like a man dying of thirst.

“Does Mr. Madara… do this _often_?” Fumiko asked Sachiko, who was cheering him on.

“Only when Mrs. Senju’s here,” Sachiko responded, laughing and breathless, leaning over the wobbly wooden table. “God, just wait until she starts talking about her husband – that’s when they’ll really get going.”

“Don’t be such a _prude_ , Ma,” Kuro said, leaning over. “Mr. Madara hardly ever takes the stick out of his ass. We can’t begrudge him a drink now and then.”

Fumiko frowned and looked over the table to where Madara was sprawled over the floor.

Someone brought out a violin, and a group was beginning to dance on the far side of the warehouse.

Madara lunged into a sitting position, and, with great difficulty, crawled over to where Mito was sitting, propped up against a table leg. She was crying softly, and clutching a whiskey bottle like it would bring her salvation.

“He’s an _ass_ , Mito,” Madara said over the music as he collapsed at her side.

“Oh, boy,” Sachiko said, gathering her skirts. “I’m going to – hmm, run damage control? See you around, Fumiko!” And she was gone in a whirl of plaid cotton.

Mito’s sobs stopped immediately. “My _god_ ,” she said, tear-streaked face shining under the lights. “My – _god_ ,” she repeated, handing Madara the empty whiskey bottle. “You have _no idea_.”

Sachiko knelt beside them and delicately extracted the bottle from Madara’s grasp.

“No – no – Madara, listen to me, listen –” Mito babbled, sitting upright. She grabbed a handful of Madara’s shirtsleeve and pulled on it urgently. Her hair was falling out of its elegant up-do, and Sachiko placidly sat on the table above her and began to pull the pins free as she gesticulated. “Madara – he’s been _fucking_ me.”

On the other side of the table, Fumiko’s mouth dropped open.

Madara sat bolt upright, head cracking against the underside of the table. “ _Fuck_!” he hissed, steadying himself on the edge before blearily fixing his gaze on Mito. “He _what_?”

“He’s been fucking me,” Mito repeated, face blazing with fury. “His dick works _fine_ , Madara! His dick works as well as any man I’ve ever _met_!”

Madara’s eyes were huge. His mouth worked wordlessly. Kuro reached under the table and handed him another jug of moonshine.

“Do you –” Mito hiccupped loudly. “Do you know _why_?”

“Ohhh, I didn’t miss it, did I?” Nezumi’s voice rang out over the tabletop. She clambered onto it, crawling on all fours over the surface, and poked her head out over where Mito and Madara were collapsed. “Sachiko, I didn’t miss it, did I?”

“Hush,” Sachiko said. She began to pull Mito’s coal-black hair into a loose braid.

“Madara, he’s only been _fucking_ me because I have _black hair_.” Madara was sitting, frozen, jug of moonshine millimeters from his mouth. “I look like – I look like –” She looked up, and the fury coalesced into something crystal clear and sharp in her eyes as they landed on Nezumi’s face, dangling above her. “Nezumi, Hashirama would have _no_ problem fucking _you_.”

Everyone in the surrounding area froze. The fiddle let out an unholy shriek and fell silent. A dozen pairs of black eyes slowly turned to Madara, whose face was alternating between ashen gray and dark red. Nezumi’s face was frozen in a mask of horrified delight – when her gaze drifted over to meet Madara’s, she erupted, screaming, into hysterical laughter. Sachiko couldn’t help but join her, letting Mito’s braid fall down against her back as she covered her face with both hands. Her shoulders began to shake.

The fiddler started playing again. The music, lively though it was, almost apologetically carried over the barn.

Madara looked like he wanted to commit murder. Madara looked like he wanted to die. His face finally settled on a sickly white as he turned back to Mito and loudly demanded, “What do you _mean_ he’d have no problem fucking Nezumi?”

“It’s the _hair_ ,” Mito said, taking the jug of moonshine from him. “He hates the look of my face, but _god_ , his cock’ll get hard for messy black hair –” She slung the moonshine jug over her arm and took a deep swig amid cheers from the surrounding onlookers.

Madara sounded like he was choking on something. “I have to kill him,” he said finally, eyes wide and staring into the middle distance. “Oh my god, I have to kill him –”

“Twenty percent!” Nezumi screamed into the crowd, standing upright on the table. “I’m increasing my lot by _twenty percent_ –”

The controlled chaos of the warehouse erupted into a frenzy.

* * *

It didn’t take long for Mito to lose most of her clothes. She was partying in a barn among a crowd of grabby Uchihas – these things happened. One of her shoes ended up in the barn loft; her skirt sustained a long tear down the side; the bands in her corset snapped when she was flung bodily into a stray barrel. Sachiko, ever-present and attentive, helped cut her out of it before the loose whalebone punctured her lung, and stuffed her into one of Madara’s (three) spare shirts. The skirt, Sachiko attempted to salvage by tucking the shirt into it and tying the green silk around her waist – but it was a temporary fix, at best, and by the end of the night the skirt was gone as well, leaving Mito in nothing but ragged petticoats and a man’s shirtsleeves.

Madara, at eight o’clock sharp, declared that the party was _over_ for Mito, and that he was taking her home, despite her loudly voiced protests. He kicked open the door to the warehouse, Mito slung over his shoulder like a squirming sack of potatoes.

“Bye!” Nezumi said, waving cheerfully from the warehouse door as he tromped into the night. “Bye-bye! Have fun!”

* * *

“Of course, the role of mayor will be decided upon diplomatically,” Tobirama said, drumming his fingers on the armrest of the dining chair.

“Why not just appoint your brother to it?” chortled Cyprus Mayview. Titters sounded off around the table. “He’s a born politician. Just look at him! They’re just going to elect him, anyway.”

“Oh, no,” Hashirama laughed, setting down his fork and waving his hand. “Absolutely not. I have a business to run! I can’t wear _every_ hat in this town.”

Maureen Mayview opened her mouth to respond when a loud _bang_ came out of the front foyer. All conversation around the dinner table ceased. Tobirama slowly set his knife down beside his plate.

Heavy footfalls echoed into the dining room. All eyes were fixed on the entryway as Madara Uchiha stormed into view. Mito Senju, unconscious, was slung over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. She was wearing nothing but ripped petticoats and what was undeniably a _man’s_ shirt.

Maureen Mayview gasped, scandalized.

Madara stopped in dead in the doorway, locked eyes with Hashirama Senju, and growled wordlessly. Then he turned and stomped up the staircase.

Hashirama folded his napkin, placed it next to his plate, and moved his utensils to the middle of the table.

“Brother,” Tobirama said warningly.

Hashirama just shot him a reassuring smile. “Are you still hungry? Here, take my portion.” Without waiting for an answer, he dumped the remainder of his food onto Tobirama’s plate. Then he pushed his chair back slightly and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long. A few seconds later, Madara descended the stairs with thundering footsteps and stalked into the dining room with the fury of a god in his eyes. The dinner guests almost fell over themselves, scooting their chairs back to get out of his way. Madara ripped the serving fork out of the roast beef at the center of the table –

– and buried it into the wood where Hashirama’s hand had been not a second earlier.

Hashirama was on his feet in an instant, his chair clattering to the floor as Madara seized him by the collar and stabbed at his face. Hashirama ducked backwards, grabbing his empty plate as he went – it broke over Madara’s head in a spray of fine china, and someone screamed.

Madara went down like a rock, dragging Hashirama down with him. He was doing everything in his power to choke Hashirama with his own tie. His other hand still held the serving fork – Hashirama pinned it to the floor and struggled to rip the other hand away from his throat. Madara kicked his legs out and managed to twist sideways, wrapping them backwards around Hashirama’s torso.

There was a violent scuffle as they rolled around on the floor – blood began to streak along the rug, and it became clear that one of them had managed to bite the other.

Tobirama herded everyone towards the hallway. “Please have a seat in our parlor,” he said, spine straight and face a stonily cordial mask.

“My god, they’re going to kill each other in there!” cried Cyprus Mayview. “You have to do something!”

“Quite. In the parlor, please. Thank you.” Tobirama ushered them in and gave the servant’s bell a curt tug. Then he walked back into the dining room, drawing his pistol as he went.

“Madara –” Hashirama was saying, back flat on the floor, chest heaving. “Madara, what on _Earth_ has gotten into you –”

Madara was straddling him, both hands pressing down on the carving fork, which was positioned directly over Hashirama’s throat. Hashirama’s hands were locked onto his wrists. His tie was nowhere to be seen. Madara was bleeding sluggishly out of a bite wound on his shoulder.

Tobirama sighed heavily, then pointed the gun directly at Madara’s head.

Hashirama’s eyes flicked down to him and he barked, “ _Tobirama, stop_!”

Madara jerked, and twisted around to stare at Tobirama with wild eyes. Hashirama took advantage of his moment of confusion and wrestled him onto the ground, prying the carving fork out of his fingers as he did so. Madara bucked and writhed under him as Tobirama, disappointed, lowered the pistol.

Hashirama dug an elbow into his spine and snarled, “I _will_ bite you again, so _help_ me God –”

Madara elbowed him in the face. As Hashirama reeled, he wriggled free and scrambled towards the door. Tobirama stepped to the side, wrinkling his nose. Madara barreled past him, down the hall, and out through the front door.

Hashirama rolled onto his back, chest heaving, eyes wide and staring at the ceiling. There was a dark red flush high on his cheeks.

As Tobirama – still mildly disappointed – holstered his pistol and walked towards him, Cyprus Mayview stuck his head out of the parlor and called, “Is it safe?”

“Is it, Hashirama?” Tobirama asked, leaning over him.

Mrs. Cooper appeared in the doorway. “You rang, Mr. Senj – oh my _heavens_ , what’s happened here?”

Tobirama held out his hand and pulled Hashirama to his feet. “Mrs. Cooper,” he said. “Please go upstairs and attend to Mrs. Mito. I have no doubt she will need some assistance. And could you send for John to tidy up, in here? We will take the rest of the meal in the garden.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Cooper replied, staring at Hashirama. “Mr. Hashirama, are you alright? Shall I –”

Hashirama wiped a streak of blood off his chin. “I’m quite alright, Mrs. Cooper,” he said. He sounded breathless. “I just – ah – Tobirama, I need to go upstairs for a moment –”

“I must agree,” Tobirama said frostily. “Please go clean yourself up. We have two more courses to get through, after all.”

“Right.” Hashirama staggered towards the staircase. “Oh, hello Cyprus – no, I’m alright – just have to go get another tie, you know how it is –”

“Of course,” came Cyprus’ bewildered response from the hallway. “Take your time, Mr. Hashirama, please.”

Mrs. Cooper swept down the hall, calling for her husband. Tobirama walked back into the parlor and headed straight for the liquor cabinet.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said flatly, pulling out a bottle of bourbon and a set of glasses. “We will be moving to the garden.” He pulled the cork out with a _pop_ and poured each of them a glass.

“Not at all,” Maureen Mayview said, accepting her glass. “What a positively frightful man that was!”

“An Uchiha, wasn’t it?” Joanne said as she led the group out the front door. “You have heard about them, haven’t you, Mr. Tobirama?”

Hashirama came skidding back down the stairs. He was wearing a clean tie – it was a horrid shade of yellow and clashed terribly with his suit. He’d re-tied his hair back at the base of his neck and washed the blood off his face. There hadn’t been much he could do about the livid purple bruise forming at the base of his neck, however.

“Heard about what, now?” He said cheerily, following Tobirama out the door.

Joanne and Maureen exchanged dark looks.

“This way,” Tobirama said, holding his arm out to the right. “There’s a table in the gazebo. Please mind your steps.”

“Mr. Hashirama,” Maureen fell into step beside him, lips pursed, eyes lowered, as if choosing her words carefully. “I’m sure you haven’t heard, given you’ve only been here for… oh, what was it, Cyprus? Four months?”

“Thereabouts,” Cyprus said, sipping on his bourbon. His glass was already mostly empty.

“Heard what?” Hashirama asked again, laughing.

They filed into the gazebo and took seats around the wrought iron table. The faint smell of pipe smoke clung to Hashirama’s jacket like mist on a harbor. Mr. Cooper followed close behind them, wheeling a cart of dishes over the fine-gravel path.

“Well,” Maureen said, settling into her chair with the ease of a practiced storyteller. “The Uchiha clan has a bit of a… _reputation_ , let’s say.”

“Maureen,” Cyprus interrupted. “Please. Let’s not ruin dinner with talk of –”

“Oh, no, Cyprus, I insist. I’ll need to learn the local gossip sooner or later, right?” Hashirama laughed again and leaned forward. “Tell me, what have they done to earn such notoriety?”

Joanne cleared her throat. “They have a history of... encouraging marital strife.”

Hashirama raised his eyebrows as Mr. Cooper began to set the table. “Encouraging… marital strife?” He chuckled. “I really have no idea what you’re talking about, Mrs. Keeling!”

“Infidelity,” Tobirama said flatly, sipping on his bourbon.

Silence fell around the table. Cyprus was resolutely refusing to meet anyone’s eyes.

Maureen cleared her throat loudly, clearly faintly annoyed that her thunder had been stolen, and said, “Yes. Well. It happened to the Jacobsons and the Lindberghs.”

“I – how? What?” Hashirama was staring at Tobirama, mouth agape. “You think Mito – and _Madara_? You think they –”

“We’re not saying it’s a certain thing, Mr. Hashirama, please understand,” Joanne reached over and patted him on the shoulder. “You should just be aware of the dangers! The Uchihas can be a devilishly seductive family. Their debauchery and wiles have ensnared many poor souls. Why, they almost ruined my own marriage!”

“Poor Frankie,” Maureen said sadly. “May he rest in peace.”

“May he rest in peace,” intoned the rest of the table. Gradually, the conversation turned to other topics – or, more accurately, Tobirama steered the conversation to other topics with the grace of a steamroller as Mr. Cooper began to bring out the next course.

Hashirama stared down at his plate, completely dumbstruck. Was Mito… with _Madara_?

Cyprus had regained his spirit somewhat with a full plate of food in front of him and was regaling the table with his most recent business venture.

It couldn’t be. But then… she did seem to enjoy spending time with him… and it _was_ Madara. Anyone would be smitten with him – he was a strong, handsome, capable man, with sturdy arms and sharp black eyes and a smile like a silent benediction –

“My god,” Hashirama said quietly. He folded his napkin and pushed his chair back from the table.

“Where are you going?” Tobirama asked, a spoonful of stew halfway to his mouth.

“I have to – just – please excuse me for a second,” Hashirama said as he edged his way out of the gazebo. “I’m going to check up on Mito.”

“Of course,” Maureen waved her hand. “Don’t mind us, Mr. Hashirama, you take your time. Do give her our regards!”

“Of course,” Hashirama said numbly. He rounded the corner of the house with harried steps. He didn’t go upstairs. Mrs. Cooper was no doubt busy attending to Mito; his wife was in good hands. Hashirama didn’t need to be there. One of the servants was sweeping up the broken glass in the dining room as Hashirama walked past. He went into the parlor, uncapped the mostly-empty bottle of bourbon and poured himself a shaking glass, then sat into one of the overstuffed green chairs by the fireplace.

The worst part, if it was true at all, was that he couldn’t even find it in himself to _blame_ Mito. He should, he knew. By all rights he should be furious, at Mito and Madara both, even that the insinuation was raised – and she _had_ come home in a man’s shirt. What kind of husband was he, that this barely even raised an alarm in him?

But god, he couldn’t blame Mito, because Madara was – well, he was _Madara_. Hashirama knew all too well the inexorable pull of his smile, his scowl, the way his tongue ran over his bottom lip when he was deep in thought. If this truly was a question of infidelity – which Hashirama hoped it _wasn’t,_ of course, but if it was – he could no more blame Mito for falling for Madara’s charms than he could blame the river for flowing into the sea. It was a wonder Madara wasn’t _besieged_ by women, honestly. How had he managed to avoid getting married? A man like that –

The thought of Madara getting married twisted something deep and painful inside Hashirama. He swirled the bourbon and frowned at it.

He couldn’t even bring himself to get angry at _Madara_. Why would he? Mito was a beautiful woman – incredibly beautiful, with a face like smooth porcelain and eyes like honey-brown wells. Hashirama knew she’d been popular down in New Orleans; it would be little surprise for her to retain such popularity, even here. Madara and Mito were _both_ handsome. The image rose in his mind of Madara’s fingers, tracing where his own had been – Madara’s hands fisting in the duvet as he –

The glass hit his teeth as Hashirama drained it in one smooth motion. He needed to talk to Madara. He needed to talk to Mito, too, he supposed. If this was – if there was something between them – Butsuma would be furious, of course, but divorces _had_ happened before in their family. It wasn’t unheard-of. If she’d be happier with Madara, then who was Hashirama to intercede? If Madara would be happy with Mito…

Was that why he’d agreed to come visit so often? Hashirama set the glass down on the side table and scrubbed at his face. Was Madara visiting so that he had an excuse to spend time around Mito? But that didn’t make a lot of sense, Hashirama reflected, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. The last two times Madara had come over, Mito hadn’t even been home. Madara had seemed content enough with just Hashirama’s presence at the time, but…

Hashirama resolved to stop worrying about it for the time being. In the morning, he decided, rising to his feet, he would talk to Mito. Then, at the next available opportunity, he would talk to Madara. He would worry about what need or need not be done when the time came, and not before.

Hashirama went back outside.

* * *

Hashirama had enough tact to refrain from bringing up the topic with Mito the next morning. He didn’t mention it during lunch, or during their quick walk around the gardens, as Mito squinted out from under her parasol in the bright afternoon sun.

Hashirama had enough tact, in fact, not to mention it to Mito at all.


	15. Chapter 15

_But whoso committeth adultery with a woman lacketh understanding: he that doeth it so casteth Amaterasu upon his own foundation._ _– Proverbs 6:32_

“So,” Madara said, tipping the chair back on its hind legs. “Congratulations.” He lifted the whiskey glass in a small salute.

Hashirama looked up at him over the desk, blinking owlishly. “Congratulations?”

Tobirama sniffed and handed Hikaku another piece of paper. The stack between them was rapidly growing taller. “Thank you,” he said curtly. He looked sideways at Hashirama. “The brewery, brother.”

“Oh!” Hashirama exclaimed, laughing. He signed the invoice in front of him with a flourish. “Of course! Yes, we’re very excited that the construction’s complete. And so soon after the incorporation of the town, too!”

“When will you begin production?”

“Within the month, if all goes well.” Tobirama made a mark on his ledger and frowned at the letter in front of him. “Hikaku, there’s an error here.”

“No, there’s not,” Hikaku said, adjusting his reading glasses. “That’s the Haruno plot. They don’t pay taxes.”

The two glared icily at each other over the stack of books.

Hashirama folded the invoice into a square and passed it to Tobirama. “Please excuse me for a second,” he said, standing. “Madara, can I have a word with you?”

Madara narrowed his eyes, but let the chair fall to the floor with a soft _thump_. “I’ll be right back,” he said to Hikaku as he stood.

“Please be quick, brother,” Tobirama said, turning a page in the ledger. “We have several months’ worth of expenses to go over before production starts.”

“I’ll be quick,” Hashirama promised, opening the door to the hall. Madara followed behind him, raising the whiskey glass to his lips. In the hallway, Hashirama hesitated for half a second – but there really wasn’t a _good_ place in his house to have this kind of conversation, especially given the delicate subject matter. He began to thud down the stairs.

Madara tilted his head incredulously. “Where are you _going_?” he asked, leaning over the banister.

“Come on!” Hashirama called from the foyer. He opened the front door without waiting for a response.

The topic of infidelity had been burning under his tongue for a whole week, now. The ribbon-cutting ceremony and the disastrous dinner had been on Saturday; it was now the following Friday, and Hashirama still hadn’t worked up the courage to say anything to Mito.

She’d hired a specialist to come strip her hair of the dye and restore it to its brilliant red shade on the Monday after the ceremony. She was, as Hashirama understood it, ‘not enduring another second of this travesty, no matter what your brother says about the cost.’ Hashirama was disappointed, but it was her choice, and he couldn’t begrudge her that.

Madara came around the corner of the house, looking increasingly irritated. He scuffed at the gravel path through the garden with the toe of his boot and asked, “ _What_ are we doing out here?”

Hashirama fiddled with his shirtsleeve. It was probably good to have this conversation in the open. The most at risk was a few rosebushes. “Well,” he said, and his traitorous cheeks began to flush immediately.

Madara watched him flounder for a minute through hooded eyes, then downed the rest of his whiskey. He walked over to the gazebo and set the glass down on the wrought iron table. “Well?” he said, crossing his arms as he leaned back on it. “It’s almost seven. Hikaku’ll need to leave soon.”

Hashirama followed him into the structure and scratched at the back of his neck. “I have a… question for you,” he said hesitantly. “It’s a topic of a rather _sensitive_ nature, so I’m… well.”

Madara was silent.

“I might as well spit it out, I suppose. Madara –” Hashirama looked up, and the words died in his throat. Madara’s head was tilted, slightly. The long hair framing his face brushed the collar of his shirt. His eyes were wide and dark; his lips were parted, slightly. Hashirama took a deep breath. “Are you seeing Mito?”

It was like time had frozen. Hashirama wasn’t even sure if Madara was breathing. Then, in a rush of air, as if he’d just been hit in the ribs, Madara said, “ _What_?”

Hashirama steadied himself. “Do you have designs on my wife?” He tugged at his shirtsleeve and added, “I’m not – I just need to know. I’m just asking. As a friend. I would hope you do me the courtesy of –”

Hashirama had expected rage. He’d expected Madara to flip the table, or to hit him, or aggress him in some way for the accusation. Even though Hashirama was hoping to come off as non-threatening as possible, he knew Madara was a man of violent passions – but he didn’t expect him to look away, curtain of hair falling over his face, as his body sagged against the table. “No,” came Madara’s flat reply. “No, Hashirama. I have no interest in your wife.”

Hashirama persisted. “The other night, when you brought her home – she was wearing –”

“One of my shirts,” Madara said dully. “Yes. You can ask Sachiko about that. It was her handiwork.” He lifted a hand and ran it down his face. “Is that what you thought this was? Me, trying to get close to your _wife_?”

“I hadn’t – I was –” Hashirama threw up his hands, leaning against one of the gazebo walls. “No, Madara. I –”

“The thought clearly occurred to you, though,” Madara said. There was still none of the fire Hashirama had expected in his voice. He was speaking in a flat monotone, and he still hadn’t looked Hashirama in the eye. “You can rest easy. Mito’s all yours, Hashirama. Like I said, I have absolutely no interest in her.” He pushed off of the iron table and began to walk back towards the front of the house.

Hashirama lingered in the gazebo, feeling like he’d crossed some invisible line.

* * *

That evening, after Madara and Hikaku had left, and after the day’s work was cleared away, and the fires were banked in the hearths, Hashirama walked into the bedroom he shared with Mito and let out a polite cough.

Mito twisted around in her seat at the vanity to look at him. The ivory-handled hairbrush swept through her crimson hair in a gentle rasp. “Yes?” she asked.

“How was your trip to Springfield?” Hashirama asked, stepping into the room.

“It was fine,” Mito said, turning back to the mirror. “It’s the same as every other little town in this area, really. There was a little boutique that sold rather interesting shawls.”

“Is that so?” Hashirama asked, unbuttoning his waistcoat. He shrugged out of it and paused, hands twisting in the worsted wool. “Mito,” he said, and the words stuck in his throat.

He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to have to ask Mito if she was – and it wasn’t like he didn’t _believe_ Madara, but –

“Yes?” Mito said, eyebrows raised. She continued to brush through her long hair.

Hashirama went over to her side of the room and sat on the corner of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, hands twisting together. “I have been… well. The question was raised, the other day… I mean, last Saturday. When Mad – when you came home.”

Mito set the brush down on the vanity and turned around to look at Hashirama. Her face was studiously blank.

“Are you –” Hashirama took a deep breath and steeled himself. Why was this so much harder than asking Madara? “Are you and Madara… close?”

Mito screwed up one side of her face in incomprehension. “Pardon?”

“Are you and he – when you go over there, to the warehouse, are you – I’m not mad! I just –”

“Wait,” Mito said softly. “Wait,” she repeated, louder. “ _What_?”

Hashirama shut his mouth and waited.

“Do you think I’ve been unfaithful?” Mito demanded, rising to her feet. “You’re asking _me_ if _I’ve_ been unfaithful? Hashirama, how _dare_ you?”

“You came home in a man’s shirt, Mito! You’ve _slept_ over there –”

“That I came home at all is a testament to my commitment to our marriage, Hashirama! And don’t think I don’t know about all those nights you spent at the construction site – or those nights you didn’t come to bed at all! If anything, I should be the one accusing _you_ of infidelity!”

Hashirama head jerked to the side as if he’d been slapped.

Mito paced between the vanity and the door, hair a blood-red cloud behind her. “I have had _so_ many opportunities in my time here – I could’ve had any man in a _hundred_ miles, easily. And I didn’t. I restrained myself, because I knew it would hurt you, and – and –” Mito let out a ragged gasp of air that verged on a sob. “Hashirama, I’ve been trying _so_ hard to make myself love you, and I just – I can’t. I can’t!” She laughed wetly and covered her face. “I’m done. I admit it. I’m a bad wife! I know!” She wiped her face and levelled a shaking finger at Hashirama. “But, even for all that, I _still_ haven’t strayed. The thought that you could even _think_ that I would do such a thing –”

“I know,” Hashirama said, staring at the far wall. “I was out of line. I apologize.” He got to his feet as well. “I’ll ask Mrs. Cooper to lay out some linens in a guest bedroom – I wouldn’t trouble you with my presence any further tonight.”

“No need,” Mito said flatly, walking over to the wardrobe. “You can have the bed tonight, husband. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

If Hashirama had been a dutiful husband, he would have asked where she was going. If he’d been a good husband, he would have protested the thought of her going out on her own at this hour. “Are you sure?” is what he said instead.

Mito stuffed two dresses into a bag, pulled on her shoes, and left.

* * *

Mito found Madara standing outside the Sharingan Breweries stable, hands stuffed deep into his coat pockets, staring at the moon.

Mito was furious. Mito was hurt, and Mito was angry, and Mito wanted to cause someone pain.

She strode forward, tossing her bag aside, onto the dewy grass, and got right up in his face. “I know,” she said quietly, her own dark eyes meeting his coal black ones. “I know. I remember.”

Madara’s eyes narrowed. “Remember what?”

“I remember what you said,” Mito said in that same soft voice. There was steel in her eyes. “About Hashirama. You’re a chatty drunk, Madara. I remember what you said you wanted him to _do_.”

Even under the pale light of the moon, she could see the blood drain from his face.

“I don’t forget when I’m drinking,” Mito continued in the same harsh whisper. “I never have. I guess I just thought you were joking – but in retrospect –”

Madara took a step back. “What do you want?” he hissed.

“I’m staying here tonight,” Mito said. “I couldn’t bear to be in the same house as Hashirama any longer, and I have nowhere else to go.”

“So, he asked you, too.”

“Shut up.” Mito’s lip curled in a snarl. “You are going to stay the _fuck_ away from my husband.”

“Why?” Madara said with a sudden, jerking violence in the tense line of his shoulders as he stepped forward. “Are you _worried_ , Mito? You said it yourself – he’d have no problem fucking _Nezumi_ , after all –”

“That’s not the point,” Mito said. She shook her head, her unbound red hair cascading over her shoulders.

Madara looked at her through narrow eyes. The moon was bright. He could see bags under her eyes almost as deep as his own. Madara recognized the hurt clinging to her shoulders.

“You look like you could use a drink,” he said.

Mito crossed and uncrossed her arms. She opened her mouth challengingly – then bowed her head. “I could,” she admitted.

* * *

Mrs. Cooper set up the guest bedroom. Mito began to take her meals at different times than the rest of the household.

Madara stopped visiting every week. Madara stopped visiting altogether.

Tobirama was the only bastion of normality left in Hashirama’s life – he rose at 7 o’clock every morning like clockwork, took his breakfast at 8, and rode out to oversee the operations at the brewery immediately afterwards.

Work was picking up. Their father sent them laborers from their distillery in the east – a crew of twenty or so, who lodged in the newly-built workhouse near the brewery and spent their time in the small bar in the middle of town. The task of getting the brewery in full production was well in hand, Tobirama had assured Hashirama – and so, despite being the ostensible owner and proprietor of a new business, Hashirama suddenly found himself with very little to occupy his time.

Two weeks after his last conversation with Madara, Hashirama mailed him a bottle of whiskey and a note of apology. Madara never responded.

Nezumi began coming over with regularity. More than once had Hashirama wandered into the parlor, or the office, or into the garden, only to find Nezumi and Mito engaged in deep conversation – conversations that would inevitably cease whenever Hashirama entered the room.

Finally, at a loss for anything else to do – he had been prohibited from chopping any more firewood until the household ran out of their current stockpile – Hashirama resorted to taking long walks in the surrounding woods. He was familiar with the area by now – at least, familiar with the birds-eye view granted by the excessive study of survey maps – and it was good exercise! At worst, he might get a little lost, and at best, he might find an interesting plant or two. Even though Hashirama had never studied botany – Butsuma had, of course, exhorted him to enroll in a business course instead – he still knew enough to consider himself somewhat of a journeyman when it came to plants and fungi.

Of course, if his walks brought him near the Sharingan Breweries warehouse, that was just coincidence.

* * *

“We agreed on four barrels,” Madara said around the pipe.

The four men in dark suits exchanged looks. “Of course,” said a tall one with slicked back hair. “But it should be obvious that there would be a tax.”

This startled a laugh out of Madara. “A _tax_?” he said, chortling. “You’re _taxing_ me? That’s adorable.”

The heavy-set man on the left reached for his hip. “You’re walkin’ a fine line, Mr. Uchiha.”

“Maybe so,” Madara agreed, sliding off of the back of the wagon. “But I have correspondence that says _four barrels_ , and if Mr. Morello wants _five_ barrels, I’m going to need to see it in writing first.” He paused, taking the pipe out of his mouth. “And another 212 dollars, I suppose.”

The heavy-set man drew a pistol from its holster and levelled it at Madara. There was a low rustle in the surrounding trees as the hammers of fifteen rifles cocked and took aim.

The man with slicked back hair spun around, mouth dropping open in indignant disbelief. “You can’t be serious,” he said, whirling back to Madara, who was puffing on his pipe. “You came to _us_ to do business, and this is the reception we get?”

“I came to you,” Madara said, “with the expectation that I would not be taxed for my liquor. If I have been _misinformed_ in some way –”

“You’re playing a game above your pay grade, you fuckin’ hillbilly,” he spat, drawing his own pistol.

“Yeah, and you’re not in fucking _Chicago_ anymore,” Madara snarled, ripping the pipe out of his mouth and taking two swift strides forward. “You’re in the ass-end of nowhere, and _your_ boss came to _me_ to ask for a cheap source in the region. You don’t have _half_ the organization this far down south, and if you even want to get _back_ to your boss and tell him you pissed this opportunity down the shitter, you’ll tell your _buddy_ to put his _fuckin’_ gun down.” Madara’s face was less than five inches away from the other man’s. “These woods can be a little _tricky_ to navigate at night,” he said. “I recommend you take these _four barrels_ and make your way back up north before it gets too dark.”

“Mr. Morello is _not_ gonna be pleased with you,” said one of the men darkly.

“I’ll let Mr. Morello be the one to tell me that,” Madara said, narrowing his eyes. “I gotta say, I don’t think he really cares how mean I’ve been to you, so long as this delivery gets back to him on time. I could probably cut a few _pieces_ off o’ you without him kickin’ up too much of a fuss.” There was a dark gleam in Madara’s eyes. “Matter of fact, given how _difficult_ you’re making this transaction, I might be inclined to _test_ that theory –”

“Alright,” sneered the man with slicked back hair. “You’ve made your point. Fuckin’ Christ. Jimmy, give the man the money. Peter, start movin’ those barrels.”

“Should I expect this bullshit every time I do business with you folks?” Madara asked flatly, stepping aside. He hooked his pipe on his teeth and dug in his pockets for another match.

The man with the oily hair didn’t deign to answer. The four men loaded their own wagon as Jimmy pulled a stack of twenties out of his coat pocket.

Madara counted over the money, then held it out to the side. Hikaku, materializing out of the underbrush, rifle slung over his shoulder, took it and counted it again.

“A pleasure, gents,” Madara said as the men climbed into their own wagon.

“Of course,” said the man with slicked back hair. “We’ll be in touch.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will.” Madara watched the carriage disappear into the gathering dark with a smile on his lips.

He _really_ loved business days.

* * *

Surrounded by chirping green forest, Hashirama slid down from his horse and pulled his ledger out of his coat pocket. The thin green stalk snapped easily between his fingers. He pressed it between the pages and tucked the book back into his jacket.


	16. Chapter 16

_And be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God by Susano’o’s mighty sword hath forgiven you. - Ephesians 4:32_

_Father:_

_The brewery is in full production as of my writing this letter. I am appending to it a shipping manifest for a crate of the Thousand Hands_ _Brewery’s inaugural batch. I myself am quite pleased with the level of output we have achieved, even with as such scant resources as we presently find ourselves. My brother’s work with the Uchiha families has secured us a good swathe of land to dedicate to growing barley and hops. The system of imports is working well enough for production throughout the winter months. Please send Ashina Uzumaki my regards._

_Your eldest son and Mito are both well._

_Your son,_

_T. Senju_

* * *

_Hashirama:_

_May I ask why your wife is only talking to us through notes? I say ‘us’, as I am certain she would give you no greater courtesy than she would me._

_Also, I need your signature for the prospective production schedule for the next month. See attached._

_T. Senju_

* * *

_Mito,_

_I understand where you’re coming from. I would beg your forgiveness. You know it was not my intention to offend you – I hold you in only the highest esteem. I simply wanted to know all the facts so as to better chart a course for the future. I understand my mistake, and I will not make any such insinuation again._

_Please let me know when you’re ready to talk._

_Hashirama_

* * *

_M. Uchiha:_

_Your payment for the Johnson Family’s barley is enclosed. Please impress upon them the necessity of dragging their roads properly before winter is upon us._

_Please also see the enclosed letter from H._

_T. Senju_

* * *

_T. Senju:_

_If you have some complaint with the way any particular member of my family is tending to the lands held in their trust, you can address them to Z. Smith. He is the current legislative head of such arbitrations in this city, is he not? Per clan ordinances, the Johnsons are perfectly well within acceptable parameters. If you would like to see these ordinances for yourself, I have them recorded in my office, right next to my knife catalogue. I would be happy to show you._

_M. Uchiha_

* * *

_Dear M. Uchiha,_

_Your last shipment was more than sufficient. Peter said there was some trouble with the price negotiations – I take it there was a miscommunication somewhere along the line. You should be pleased to know your assumption was correct. I want what I ordered – nothing more, nothing less. I am so pleased with your product, in fact, that I would like to place an order for another six barrels. I’ll send Gino down this time. If he gives you any trouble, take one of his fingers as a surcharge._

_Cordially,_

_J. Morello_

* * *

_T. Senju:_

_We are still awaiting payment for lots F-7556 and UL-P0993._

_Thank you,_

_H. Uchiha_

* * *

_H. Uchiha:_

_Lot UL-P0993 isn’t due to be paid until the first shipment of hops is processed next year. Please refer to page 32 in the Tanaka and Livingston Tract packet._

_I sent payment for lot F-7556 on the 3 rd of September. Please check your records again – failing that, I would ask you first confer with your clan head, as he might have misplaced it somewhere in his office._

_Sincerely,_

_T. Senju_

* * *

_Mito,_

_Tell your husband to stop writing me._

_M.U._

* * *

Hashirama awoke around four in the afternoon with a splitting headache. It was mid-September. The air was dense and humid – it was going to rain soon. The sky was overcast and cloudy outside his bedroom window. Hashirama sat upright, grimacing as a knot of pain throbbed in his skull, and rubbed at his eyes.

He felt despondent. He felt useless. Tobirama was more than capable of running the brewery himself. The elections and establishment of the city’s government were being handled by Cyprus Mayview, in close collaboration with Butsuma Senju, so there was no work for Hashirama on that front, either. Their negotiations with the Uchiha family had settled into a steady stream of correspondence between Tobirama and Hikaku, so Madara no longer needed to come visit. Mito…

Mito was present, but she was not sparing any time for him whatsoever. She began taking long trips to Saint Louis and the other surrounding cities. Occasionally, she would mail home an invoice.

Hashirama’s legs swung over the side of the bed. The floorboards creaked as he stood.

There were probably a few hours left before it rained. He should go see if that patch of mushrooms by the river has grown any larger since last time.

* * *

It was mid-September, almost 5 o’clock in the evening. The sun barely penetrated the dense clouds overhead.

Madara laughed, knocking his pipe against his boot. “You’re _sure_?”

Gino, a tall, reedy man with straw-blond hair, held out the stack of money. “Yes, sir. Mr. Morello sends his regards.”

* * *

Thirty minutes past five, Hashirama paused and looked up from the cluster of mushrooms he was squatting over. The sounds of laughter and the creaking of wood were emanating between a gap in the trees to his left. He finished writing his note about the mushrooms in his ledger, then capped his pen and stood cautiously, sliding the book back into his jacket.

“Careful with that,” admonished a familiar voice.

Hashirama slowly made his way towards the cluster of trees.

Two wagons were drawn up beside each other on a narrow, poorly maintained dirt road. In the gloom cast by the swollen clouds overhead, Hashirama could barely make out a small crew – five or so – unloading barrels from one wagon and transferring them to the other. Sitting backwards in the driver’s seat of the first wagon, pipe dangling from his smiling mouth, was Madara Uchiha. A tall, thin man with straw-blond hair was counting out a stack of bills with Hikaku Uchiha off to the side.

Hashirama stepped forward, and the tall man’s eyes snapped towards him. “We have a guest,” he said. His voice had a burr of an accent in its corners.

One of the workers spun around, hand flying to a gun at his hip –

“Hold it,” Madara said. His black eyes bored into Hashirama across the clearing. “Don’t waste your bullets. Gino, I’ll take care of this.”

“You’d better,” Gino said, hand reaching inside his own jacket. “We need to know we can _trust_ your organization, Mr. Uchiha –”

Madara’s boots hit the dirt solidly. He brushed past Gino and Hikaku and pulled his Colt out of its holster. “I said I would take care of this. Keep loading the fucking wagon. Hikaku, you’re in charge.”

The men resumed their activities as Madara advanced. There was a dark look in his eyes as he seized Hashirama by the upper arm and dragged him back the way he’d come.

Madara marched until they were out of earshot, then released his coat, turning and raising the pistol to rest, pointing at Hashirama’s forehead.

The sky was darkening with every passing second. The air smelled like rain.

Hashirama’s eyes slid from the barrel, down the length of Madara’s arm, up his neck, to his face. Madara looked tired. He still hadn’t pulled the trigger, though.

Slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal, Hashirama raised his right hand to the gun, covering the hammer and pulling the arm aside.

Madara let out a rush of air, his eyes following their interlocked hands. “Fuck,” he said weakly, under his breath. “Fuck. I have to kill you, Hashirama. You have the _worst_ fucking timing –”

“Did you like the whiskey?” Hashirama asked softly.

Madara looked beseechingly up at the sky, head shaking in disbelief. “Only you,” he said. He pulled the hand holding the gun out of Hashirama’s grasp and holstered the Colt with distracted motions. “Hashirama…”

Hashirama pulled him into a hug. “I’m sorry,” he said into the curve of his neck as his arms wrapped around the other man’s torso. “My accusations were completely baseless and uncalled for. I owe both you and Mito an apology. You’re a good man, Madara.”

“Your accusations _were_ completely baseless, Hashirama, yes – but I –” The sarcastic burr to his voice was replaced by something raw. “I am _not_ a good man.”

“I’ll keep it a secret,” Hashirama said.

Instead of shoving him away, like Hashirama had expected, Madara raised his own arms and briefly wrapped them around his waist. “You’d better,” he said. “I have to go, but –”

“Do you?” Hashirama asked, pulling back. “You left Hikaku in charge. He can handle – well, he can do business in your name, can’t he? And besides –” He laughed, sheepishly, raising one hand to scratch at the back of his neck. “I’m, ah – I’m a little lost. With my luck, in this dark, I’d get turned around and just end up back at that road again, and –”

He was lying. He was a liar and Madara knew it, too. They were less than an hour away from the Senju estate, at best. Hashirama resolved to put an extra dollar in the basket on Sunday, and then another, because Madara’s eyes were so dark and his face was so close –

“You want me to _walk you_ _home_?” Madara said incredulously.

“If you’d be so obliging,” Hashirama said, beaming.

Madara stared at him and chewed the inside of his cheek. Then, in one swift motion, he unholstered the Colt and fired a round into a dead stump next to Hashirama’s feet. Hashirama jumped.

“Alright,” Madara said, tucking the gun away. “Let’s go.”


	17. Chapter 17

_The entrance of thy words giveth light; it is the Sharingan in the eyes of the blind. - Psalm 119:130_

_Hashirama_ ,

Mito stared at the note, lips pursed. The pen twirled between her fingers.

Three weeks had passed since Hashirama asked her if she’d been unfaithful. Three weeks had passed since she told him she didn’t love him.

Mito, frankly, had been expecting to wake up to a neatly apportioned stack of divorce papers ever since she had stormed out of the house. She had not, though. The days passed almost peacefully. Aside from two notes, delicately tucked into her doorjamb, Hashirama had left her to her own devices. Tobirama, of course, barely even came home anymore – but that suited Mito just fine.

She chewed on the end of the pen. It was almost noon. She pushed the paper to the side and stood, capping the pen and returning it to its holder in the desk. It was time to communicate like adults.

Mito calmly walked out of the office and down the stairs, then into the parlor. Hashirama was sitting by the open window, a warm breeze ruffling the hair that framed his face. There was a massive, dense encyclopedia of botany open on his lap. He was taking notes in a worn, leather-bound journal.

“Hashirama,” Mito said.

Hashirama jolted, pen leaving a large ink splatter across the page. “Oh,” he said, looking up. “Hello, Mito. How are you?”

“Fine,” Mito said, walking forwards. She settled in the chair across from him and clasped her hands over one of her knees. “I think we need to talk.”

Hashirama watched her for a long second, then delicately closed the massive encyclopedia and set it on the floor. “You’re right,” he said. He leaned forward in his chair. He made no motion to touch her. “Mito, I am very, very sorry.”

“Stop,” Mito said. “That’s not what I’m here to talk about.” She paused, looking aside. “Well, it is, but not – I don’t need an apology from you, Hashirama.” She looked back at him. He seemed confused. “What I need – and what I will insist on from this moment forward, in fact – is honesty.”

“Of course,” Hashirama said, eyebrows furrowing. “Have I been –”

Mito cut him off with a look. “We are married,” she said in a voice that could be considered delicate. “I think we have both come into this arrangement with certain… expectations.”

Hashirama sat back in his chair and said nothing.

“Hashirama, I will be blunt. You are a handsome man. You are a kind man. Any woman, I’m sure, would have been delighted to have you as her husband.” Mito drew in a deep breath. “I have tried, Hashirama. I have really, earnestly tried.”

“You don’t love me,” Hashirama said. It was a strange thing, to hear him speak so emotionlessly.

Mito cocked her head and looked at him sadly. “You don’t love me, either.”

Hashirama’s eyebrows lowered again, and he opened his mouth as if to argue – but the fight immediately went out of him and he slumped back into the chair, an elbow resting on the armrest, knuckles pressed over his mouth.

“It’s alright,” Mito said, unmoving. She was carved from a block of ice. This was not new; this would not sway her. It was time for honesty. “It’s only fair.”

“So,” Hashirama said, still looking out the window. “What now?”

Mito drew in a breath until she felt her ribs press against the bones in her corset. “Well,” she said. “We have options, I suppose. Do you want a divorce?”

Hashirama’s head whipped back to her. There was something like fear in his eyes. “Do you?”

Mito pulled at one of the threads in her dress. “It would be… a disappointment to our fathers, I’m sure.”

“It would be paperwork, as well.” Hashirama leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Mito, I –” He drew in a breath as if to steady himself and looked down at the floor. “I will be frank, if that’s what you wish. My father would be immensely displeased if we were to separate. I cannot speak to Mr. Uzumaki’s temperament, but if he is a companion of Butsuma Senju I have no doubt that his attitude would be much the same. There’s also the matter of what would become of us after such a separation – or, more aptly, what would become of…”

“Me,” Mito finished softly.

Hashirama’s jaw tightened briefly. “Yes,” he said. “Mito, please understand. I –” He cut himself off. One hand went to one of his cufflinks and began fiddling with the smooth surface. “I _do_ love you. I just… it’s not… if we get a divorce,” he said, the words seemingly coming easier to him now, “I will be fine. I can marry again, or – or not. But you would have a much more difficult time.”

“You’re right,” Mito said measuredly. Her hands were still, folded neatly in her lap.

“If you can bear it,” Hashirama said, meeting her gaze again. “I have no complaints to letting our present arrangement continue.”

Mito sat back in her chair and watched his thumb press into the small chunk of gold at his wrist. She contemplated telling him about Madara. She wondered what his reaction would be, to know that one of his closest friends harbored those kinds of feelings towards him. “This town is a boring little mud hole,” Mito said. “Its inhabitants are, by and large, unwashed and crude. The nearest bastion of civilization is almost a hundred miles away.”

Hashirama huffed out a shadow of a laugh. “That’s true,” he said.

“Your brother lives like an ascetic; the extent to which you engage in society is either insufferable dinner parties with local tyrants or bare-knuckled brawls with the local clan-leaders –” Hashirama flushed at that, but didn’t object. “You, yourself, treat every indulgence as a sin, and labor into the dead hours of the morning to atone for some crime you’re not even sure you committed.”

“What?” Hashirama said, sitting upright. “What do you mean?”

Mito stared at him flatly. “You think I didn’t notice? You go do chores like chopping lumber or – or helping farmers plow fields, or building _bridges_ –”

“I did that _once_!”

“– only whenever you and Madara Uchiha get a little too close.” And there – she said it; it was out in the world.

Hashirama’s face drained of color. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The lie fell between them like a boulder. Mito just looked at him. Her hands did not clench into fists. Her face didn’t go red with anger. She just looked at him. It was a fact. Even an unpleasant fact though it was, even though Hashirama himself seemed content to languish in deliberate ignorance, Mito, at the very least, was not going to delude herself any longer. Whatever Hashirama did not feel for her, he felt in spades for someone _else_.

“To answer your question,” Mito said, clearing her throat in the sudden silence. “I am amenable to the continuation of this arrangement if you are – if only to spare my father the dismay and shame of having his only daughter become a divorcee. We will need to establish some boundaries, though.”

Hashirama nodded distractedly, again fidgeting with the cuffs of his shirt.

“I have no desire to engender more gossip about our household,” Mito continued. “Maureen Mayview hardly needs any assistance in that aspect. You may kiss me as you like in public – we will hold hands, and do all the things couples are expected to do – but I will ask Mrs. Cooper to move my belongings into the spare bedroom.”

“Of course,” Hashirama said. “If anyone asks, it’s because of my snoring.”

“They won’t ask,” Mito said crisply. “It would be in bad _taste_ to ask. And you _do_ snore, by the way.” She splayed her hands over her skirts, then hesitated. “Well. We’ll tell _Nezumi_ it was because of your snoring.”

Hashirama snorted. “Taste has never really stopped her before, has it?”

Mito stood, sighing. “No, my dear, it really hasn’t.” She stooped down and kissed him on the cheek. “Go back to your botany, husband. I’m taking a carriage to Edwinston with Mrs. Cooper. I’m also taking one of your checkbooks.”

“Have fun,” Hashirama said, reaching down to pick up the hefty encyclopedia.

“I will,” Mito said as she sailed out of the parlor.

* * *

“It’s tilted,” Nezumi said, crossing her arms.

“It’s _not_ ,” Kuro snapped from under the wagon.

“It _is_ ,” Nezumi insisted, squatting down and pointing at the wheel. “You fucked it, look.”

“I didn’t fuck anything –” Kuro squirmed out from under the structure and swatted at her hand. A sudden movement caught the corner of his eye. He twisted around and stared at the warehouse. “Is that Mr. Madara?”

The head of the Uchiha clan was walking briskly towards the trees, hands in his pockets, eyes on the ground before him.

“Wonder where he’s goin’,” Kuro said.

Nezumi stood upright. “ _Hey, boss!_ ” she hollered, cupping her hands around her mouth. “ _Where you goin’_?”

Madara barely even paused to glance back at her before he vanished into the trees.

* * *

It was a mild day. The letter in Madara’s jacket pocket brushed his side as he strolled down the packed dirt road. He found Hashirama squatting amidst a tangle of underbrush, tracing a sprig of leaves into his notebook.

“What’s that?” Madara asked, coming up behind him.

Hashirama looked up at him, eyes crinkling as he beamed. “Madara! I wasn’t sure if you were going to come or not! You’re usually so busy –”

“I have an hour or so to spare,” Madara said. “What’s that plant?”

“A bristly greenbrier!” Hashirama said. “Careful, there – there’s thorns.”

Madara raised his eyebrows. His boots came halfway up his shins, and Hashirama was all but sitting in the middle of the thicket. “Are the berries poisonous?”

“No, but they’re mostly seed. Good for the birds, but not much else.” Hashirama said, closing his notebook. “Greenbriers like this are in the _Smilax_ genus, like that one Greek myth.”

“Oh?” Madara said, leaning against a nearby tree and watching as Hashirama extricated himself from the briar patch. “I don’t know any Greek myths. What’s it about?”

“It’s –” Hashirama reached the road and shook his leg free of a grasping thorny tendril. His face went a little red. “It’s – well, it’s not important. The roots used to be used to treat gout!”

“Fascinating,” Madara said dryly. He snorted softly and reached forward to pull another patch of thorns out of the wool of Hashirama’s coat. “Shall we?” he said, flicking it back into the brush.

“Of course,” Hashirama responded, sounding a little breathless. “After you!”

* * *

“Is he…” Kuro’s mouth hung dumbly open for a second. “Is our cousin meeting with Mr. Senju… in _secret_?”

Nezumi shushed him, peering intently through the bush.

“I guess it’s not so much as secret as it is him not telling anyone,” Kuro mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “But, that kind of makes it a secret, doesn’t it, Nezumi?” He looked down. “…Nezumi?”

Nezumi was slumped back against the tree trunk, one hand over her heart, one hand pressed dramatically to her forehead. “I’m so _relieved_ ,” she said. “God, it’s been _ages_ since Mr. Senju visited – I was worried I was gonna have to _intervene_ –”

Kuro fought back a shiver and resumed watching the two men as they walked down the path.

“Now we’ve just gotta make sure they seal the deal,” Nezumi said ominously from the forest floor.

* * *

“Tobirama,” Hashirama said, stopping him in the doorway. “Brother, I _know_ you’re busy – yes, I _know_ it’s almost 8 o’clock – just listen to me for a second,”

Tobirama, coat and hat in hand, stared impatiently. He was seconds away from tapping his foot on the polished tile.

“I am coming with you to oversee work at the brewery today,” Hashirama said firmly.

Tobirama wrinkled his nose. “That’s quite unne –”

“It is quite necessary, brother. You don’t need me to explain _why_ , I’m sure. You’ve barely allowed me to step foot in the building, and, quite frankly, I’m bored. You can’t handle _everything_ by yourself.”

“I _could_ ,” Tobirama said, pulling his arm out of Hashirama’s grip.

“But you _shouldn’t_ ,” Hashirama said, retrieving his own hat from the rack. “Believe it or not, I actually _can_ be useful sometimes. And besides – what would our father think, to see me lounging around like this?”

Tobirama rolled his eyes, but held the door as Hashirama followed behind him.

* * *

_Dearest darlingest Mito,_

_I absolutely adore the little shawl you sent me! How did you ever find such a delightful pattern in a place like that? The little fans are adorable! I want a life-size one to match, so send me one of those next!_

_I suppose it’s good that you and your husband have come to an agreement. I am quite offended that you’ve told me so little about his supposed paramour, though – who could possibly have drawn his attentions over you? And how could you be so calm about it? If I were in your place, I would be an absolute terror, believe me – even if I didn’t care for the man himself! It’s the principle of the thing, Mito. Go challenge her to a duel! _ _Those are still legal in your part of the country, right? This “Madara” you told me about sounds like an interesting rogue, though. Tell me more about him in your next letter!_

_Marianne and Evette are both doing lovely. We miss you with all our hearts. Eustace is having a baby! She’s due sometime in December. God willing, you’ll be able to come visit us sometime soon! You absolutely must see her stomach – she’s enormous. _

_I’m sending you a page from the most recent Stern Brothers Catalogue! I’m sure you already have it, but just look at the ones I circled – can you believe the fashions some people are trying to popularize these days? And whoever wears ulsters anymore? _

_Write me back soon!_

_Yours,_

_Rosalie_

* * *

A pattern emerged: Hashirama would get up, take breakfast with Mito and Tobirama, and accompany Tobirama to the brewery. They would oversee the production until 5 o’clock, at which point the workers went to Ed’s bar, Tobirama went home, and Hashirama –

– Hashirama, once a week (or twice if he was lucky), would find himself wandering through the thick forests that spilled over the hillsides, journal in hand, babbling excitedly to Madara about a new strain of fungus or an interesting weed as they walked. Occasionally, Madara would accompany him home, and get into a blistering argument with Tobirama about some triviality – lot UL-P0993 was a recurring topic of discussion – before stealing a bottle of their liquor and heading back into the forest. Occasionally, Mito would follow.

His bed felt very large and very empty at night, but it was better that he and Mito were honest with each other. It was better to be honest. Hashirama’s dreams were worse than ever; dreams that left him sweating and shivering in the small hours of the morning, dreams that he could barely recall after waking –

It was nice, Hashirama decided, watching Madara laugh at one of his jokes as they ducked under a low-hanging branch. It was nice to be able to go on walks with his friend like this.

Hashirama was fine. Hashirama was good, even! So it was only natural that, less than two weeks later, it all went to shit.


	18. Chapter 18

_The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who but the All-Seeing Lord can know it? - Jeremiah 17:9_

“Of course it isn’t,” Madara scoffed, taking the bottle back. “We made three different types.”

“I don’t believe you,” Hashirama said cheekily, leaning back in his chair. The light from the oil lamp on Madara’s desk barely penetrated the gloom of the office. He spun one of Madara’s knives over his knuckles and grinned.

“Fine,” Madara said, setting the bottle on the table with a _thud_ and standing. “Come on, then.”

“Where are we going?” Hashirama asked blankly as Madara threw open the door to the office.

The warehouse was dark. Madara had sent his family home as soon as Hashirama had appeared on the doorstep; Nezumi had taken a full two hours to finish packing her crate before she’d finally given up and left with the rest.

Madara carried the oil lamp with him as he crossed the wide barn. The small flame cast flickering shadows around the tangle of copper pipes on the far wall. He set it down on a round table near a tall shelf and dragged a short stepladder out of a dark corner.

“Are you serious?” Hashirama said, laughing. He walked closer and squinted at the top of the shelf. Dusty glass bottles glinted in the lamplight. “You’re really going through all this trouble?”

“Yes, fuck you,” Madara said. “We made three types.”

“Fine, fine.” Hashirama crossed his arms and watched, amused, as Madara mounted the wooden steps.

On the third step, just as Madara was reaching for one of the dusty glass bottles, the stepladder leg snapped. Madara fell like a sack of bricks. Hashirama lunged forwards –

– there was a loud clatter, and the sound of breaking glass –

– and the next thing he knew, he was sprawled on the floor, legs tangled with Madara’s, with one of Madara’s elbows digging painfully into his shoulder. He’d managed to catch him halfway. The smell of corn liquor was thick in the air – broken shards of glass littered the wooden boards around them.

“Are you alright?” Madara asked, propping himself up on his arms over Hashirama. Maybe it was simply due to the fact that Madara wasn’t attacking him with a serving fork this time, but Hashirama’s breath caught in his throat as he stared up at the other man. A terrible realization hit him like a bolt of thunder.

It was dark in the warehouse. Madara’s hair hung around their faces like a black curtain. Madara’s dark eyes reflected the orange glow from the oil lamp on the table. His face was scant inches from Hashirama’s, and from his position on the floor Hashirama could see the smooth line of his neck as it descended into his shirt –

The realization that had hit Hashirama with such force was this: he had never, in his life, wanted to kiss anyone as badly as he wanted to kiss Madara Uchiha in that instant. It would be easy – he could reach his hands up, thread them through that inky black hair, and pull Madara down to trace his tongue along his lips, to sink his teeth into the soft skin under his jaw, to pull his sharp frame down onto Hashirama’s and rip the seams of his threadbare shirt away from the hard lines of his torso –

Hashirama swallowed sharply. “I’m fine,” he said. Madara’s face was _very_ close to his. “Are – you were – are you okay?” He was babbling. His brain was stuttering – was he even speaking English? He could feel his face flushing.

Madara frowned. “Are you _sure_ you’re fine? You sound like you’ve hit your head.”

He still hadn’t gotten off of Hashirama. One of his legs was tangled between Hashirama’s own – he could feel the press of his thigh through the wool of his pants. Hashirama was going to lose his mind. He let out a ragged puff of laughter, letting his head fall back against the floor. “I’m _fine_ ,” he repeated, more assuredly. “I just – I think I need to get going. Home, that is. Early day tomorrow!” A nervous laugh. He could feel the swell of Madara’s abdomen as he breathed.

Something like disappointment skittered through Madara’s eyes. He pushed himself backwards and got to his feet, extending a hand to Hashirama. Hashirama took it, letting himself be pulled upright.

“Turn around,” Madara said. “Let me make sure you’re not covered in glass, at least.”

Hashirama held stock still as Madara’s hands brushed brusquely over his shoulders and down his back.

“You should be fine,” Madara said at last.

Hashirama turned back around. Madara had begun to retie his hair back up on the crown of his head – it must have come undone when he fell. Hashirama hesitated – there was something on the tip of his tongue, begging to be said – but what? There was an action trembling in his hands, too, but Hashirama was familiar with this one – it would be to seize Madara by his thin waist, press him to the wooden wall behind him, and carve into him with his lips and tongue and teeth until the other man was writhing against him –

“Get going, then,” Madara said, waving at him dismissively. He picked up the oil lantern from the table.

“Madara,” Hashirama said abruptly as the other man turned away.

Madara pivoted back to him slowly, eyebrows raised impatiently. “Yes?”

“I’ll come by tomorrow!” Hashirama said, gesturing at the broken bottle at their feet. “You can show me your other vintages then, right? I can pay you for this bottle, too, since it’s my fault it got broken –”

Madara shook his head. “We’ll be in production tomorrow,” he said. “I won’t have time. And you don’t need to _pay_ me for the bottle, dumbass. _My_ stool broke, it’s on me. We wouldn’t have sold this one, anyway.”

“Well – I –” Hashirama cast about uselessly for the words.

Madara’s eyes were warm when he met them again. Something like a smile was curling the corners of his mouth. “I’ll see you again soon, Hashirama,” he said, turning back to his office with a toss of hair. “Go home.”

Hashirama left.

* * *

Mito delicately dropped a cube of sugar into her coffee and stirred it. The clinking of the spoon against the porcelain walls of the cup seemed shatteringly loud in the quiet of the dining room.

Tobirama ruffled the pages of the newspaper.

Hashirama stared, motionless, at his pile of eggs.

“How’s business?” Mito asked, raising her cup to her lips.

Tobirama didn’t look up from the newspaper. “Fine.”

“I was asking Hashirama.”

Hashirama’s head jerked minutely, as if he was just waking up. “Sorry? What was it?”

Mito set the coffee cup back down on the saucer and reached for another sugar cube. “I said, how is business?”

“Oh,” Hashirama said, looking a little lost. He glanced at Tobirama, then back to Mito. “It’s fine.”

Tobirama sniffed and turned a page in the newspaper.

Hashirama picked up his fork and pushed the pile of eggs from one side of his plate to the other.

Mito stirred her coffee.

“Say, Mito,” Hashirama began abortively. He immediately fell silent and renewed his efforts to re-scramble his eggs.

Mito blew gently on the surface of her coffee.

“Oh,” Tobirama said, folding the newspaper in half. “I was meaning to ask you, Hashirama – how is Madara?”

For some reason, a distinctly hunted look flashed over Hashirama’s eyes. “Um?” he said, fork scraping his plate.

Tobirama set the newspaper down next to his plate and reached for the carafe of coffee in the middle of the table. “Last night. You seemed rather agitated about some accident that had befallen him. Is he still alive?”

“Oh, did something happen?” Mito asked, cocking her head towards her husband.

The hunted look in Hashirama’s eyes intensified. “Um!” he all but squeaked. “He’s – fine!” He set the fork down on the table with deliberation and reached for his water glass.

Tobirama’s mouth twisted briefly. “Hm,” was all he said in response.

“What was the accident?” Mito asked.

“There was – um, well, a stool broke,” Hashirama said, laughing nervously. He was holding the glass of water like a shield between himself and Mito. “There was a bit of a mishap with an old bottle, and, well – no one was injured! Thankfully! You know those old glass bottles, really can’t be too careful with them, lots of sharp edges –”

Mito’s eyes slid over to Tobirama, who seemed a little disappointed, but otherwise incurious. She looked back at Hashirama, who was, for some godly reason, beginning to blush. He was looking at the ceiling, gesturing now with the hand that held his water glass. It sloshed precariously.

“– and tall shelves like that, too tall, honestly – it’s a wonder they built them that high, I mean, no one in that family even reaches six feet by my estimate, not that I’ve been looking all that closely –”

Oh, he was really going now.

“– honestly incredible how they’re all so tiny – I mean, not to say that Madara’s a _small_ man, but he is rather – he’s appropriately proportioned, is what I meant to say, he’s just the right size – again, not that I’ve put too much thought to it –”

Tobirama seemed to have tuned out completely. He was pouring himself another cup of coffee. Mito propped her elbow up on the table surface and watched the water in Hashirama’s glass.

* * *

“Mrs. Mito,” Nezumi folded her hands together in front of her chin and took a deep breath. She squirmed until she was sitting upright, then took another steadying breath as the room swirled around her. “Mrs. Mito. Hey. _Hey_. Listen – listen.”

Mito’s head lolled towards her. “What?”

“I have a –” Nezumi hiccupped loudly, not bothering to cover her mouth. “I’ve a confession to make.”

“’M not a priest,” Mito snorted disdainfully. She waved the half-empty liquor bottle in the vague direction of the church. “Go tell Mist – Mr. Small.”

They were lying in a corner of the Sharingan Breweries warehouse. The Uchiha clan was present in full force – the fires in the boilers were going at full blast; the buckets of mash were being thrown together with almost mechanical precision as they were passed down the long wooden tables. Sachiko and Tomiko were arguing with Hikaku in the corner over a warped barrel spigot. Madara, as usual, was sequestered in his office. The glow of his oil lamp was just barely visible through the opaque glassy window.

“ _No_ ,” Nezumi said impatiently. “It’s not _that_ kind of confession.” She made a valiant effort to seize the whiskey bottle from Mito, who lifted it higher, out of her reach.

“What is it?” Mito said, rolling her eyes. “What did you do now, you miscreant?”

“Oh, _I’m_ the miscreant? It’s Sunday, you – you heathen,” Nezumi said, falling into the cloud of Mito’s skirts. “Don’ you have a _church_ to go to?”

“It’s 7 o’clock in the evening, Nezumi,” Mito said, taking a swig from the bottle. Nezumi clawed for it ineffectually from Mito’s lap. “What’s your confession?”

Nezumi giggled drunkenly, then hiccupped again, which led to more giggling. “I put the – okay, alright, d’ you – you know the Wilkersons?”

Mito squinted at her uncomprehendingly. “Should I?”

Nezumi shook her head. “No, no, that’s not important. What’s import – ugh, what’s important is – it’s the dynamite.”

“Oh,” Mito said. She took another slug of liquor. “Great!”

“Yeah?” Nezumi said, then cackled. “Yeah! You’re right, it is, innit? Anyway, ‘s in your basement.”

“Oh!” Mito said encouragingly. She finally passed the bottle to Nezumi.

“Yeah, I was about to take – pfff, this is great, I can’t believe you’re fine with this, you’re such a doll, Mrs. Mito – anyway, I was about to – to be _proactive_ ,” Nezumi said, waving the bottle expansively.

Mito pursed her lips contemplatively. “Proactive,” she repeated, reaching for the bottle again. “Proactive – that’s good. It’s good to be proactive.”

Nezumi shot upright, head almost colliding with Mito’s. “Yeah! See? See? I knew you’d get it! I mean, you _live_ with him, how could you not?” She all but fell onto Mito’s shoulders, patting her on the back. “I would’ve waited for – see, with this stuff, you need a – like a – soft, right? A soft touch. Gotta be the right _time_. Like bird watching. Except all the birds need to be gone – those Coopers are a nice bunch, after all –”

“Uh huh,” Mito agreed before slinging the bottle back.

“In fact,” Nezumi started giggling again. “I almost did it, too – while you were – during the church service! Because your schedules are so predictable, no one’s home, right? Church!” She fell back into Mito’s lap, hand again wrapped around the neck of the whiskey bottle. “But then, I decided, why not wait? He’s doin’ – well, it’s goin’ better, right? There’s progress! Stool’s progress!”

Mito delicately placed her hands on either side of Nezumi’s face, and with a placid smile, said, “Nezumi, my dear. I’m only half following. But if you’re telling me what I think you’re telling me –” She stopped, still smiling, and stared into the middle distance for a brief second. “You’d better not be.”

“Pfff,” Nezumi said, her cheeks squished slightly between Mito’s palms. “It’s _fine_ , nothin’ _happened_ , nothin’s _gonna_ happen, everything’s –” She gestured expansively with the whiskey bottle and firmly said, “It’s all going according to plan.”


	19. Chapter 19

_But if any provide not for his own, and specially for those of his own house, he hath denied the faith, and in so doing willingly casteth himself from Susano’o’s protection. – 1 Timothy 5:8_

Hashirama was not an impractical man. Butsuma Senju did not have impractical sons, after all. Hashirama knew how to do cost-benefit analyses; he knew how to make logical, rational decisions for the benefit of a company; he knew how to collect and synthesize information, and how to draw conclusions from the knowledge acquired therein. Hashirama Senju had been to college!

So, when confronted with this very sudden and completely unexpected shift in his attractions to Madara, Hashirama did the sensible, _logical_ thing.

He went to Tobirama.

“Brother,” Hashirama said as he stepped into the administrative office at the brewery. “I have a – well, let’s call it a _hypothetical scenario_ to discuss with you.”

Tobirama didn’t look up from the logbook he was writing in. “Unless this ‘hypothetical scenario’ involves you _hypothetically_ going through my last budget statement and actually approving it, I don’t have the time, Hashirama.”

“I _did_ that already,” Hashirama said dismissively, pulling one of the wooden chairs around the corner of the desk. “It’s in your inbox, Tobirama – you have too much going on, you must’ve missed it.”

Tobirama frowned at him, and reached over to the daunting stack of papers towering on the corner of his desk. He flipped through the upper pages with narrow eyes, and clucked his tongue. “So it is,” he said crisply, pulling out a thick pamphlet and filing it into a drawer.

“Since that’s settled, I really must insist you give this matter your full attention,” Hashirama said, settling into the chair and flipping Tobirama’s logbook shut. “I’ll not intrude on you again for the rest of the day, brother – just five minutes.”

Tobirama pulled the logbook sharply towards himself and sighed exasperatedly. “Fine,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “What’s on your mind?”

“It’s –” Hashirama let out a long whistle between his teeth and twisted his fingers together. “ _Hooo_ , I really should’ve thought this out a little better – well – let’s say you have a horse, right?”

Tobirama rested his forehead in the tips of his fingers and closed his eyes. “… Alright.”

“Let’s say, with this horse, you’ve – you’ve ridden – okay, maybe a horse isn’t the best metaphor here. Let’s say it’s a – it’s a fishing rod! You have a fishing rod that you love to use. It’s great, it’s – uh. Springy.”

“Mm. Springy.”

“Yes! It gets all kinds of fish. They see this rod, they’ll swim up from rivers halfway cross-county just to get caught by it.”

Tobirama’s eyes opened a hairline crack. “Hashirama,” he said. “That’s not how fishing works.”

“Just _listen_ ,” Hashirama said, jostling his arm. “So you’ve got this incredible fishing rod, right? And you’re used to fishing in this same river, and you’ve got the – same – same bait, and everything. You’re good at catching fish, is my point.” Hashirama sucked in a deep breath. “But – follow me, here – but what if your rod suddenly – I don’t know – what if you reel in, say, a – a dog. Or a cat. Something that has no business being caught by your fishing rod – something you didn’t even expect would be in the river, because cats hate water, right? Well, I’m sure some are alright with it, but that’s the archetype, cats hating water –”

Tobirama, with the air of a man so used to being held hostage he was prepared to tie his own hands behind his back to get it over with, squinted at Hashirama and said, “Brother.”

Hashirama fell silent.

“Just to be clear. We’re not talking about fishing?”

“Ah. No. Hence the hypothetical scenario. Or, I guess, metaphor? Would you call this a metaphor?”

“I would call this a mess, but alright. In your… metaphor. You’ve been… doing something a certain way for a long time, then? And something unexpected happened?”

“Exactly!” Hashirama beamed. “So what do I do?”

Tobirama rubbed at his eye. “Can’t you just… _not_ go fishing?”

Hashirama looked away, twisting his lips into a grimace. “Well,” he said haltingly. “It’s not – I guess I _could_? But it’s more a matter of… I can’t avoid it, I guess.” Hashirama scratched behind one of his ears, demeanor suddenly sobering. “Hm. Let’s forget the metaphors, shall we? I feel like they’re not helping. I’d rather not go into too much detail, but I find myself at a loss. I’ve never – well, I’ve never really had to deal with a situation like this before.”

Tobirama tilted his head. “Does this have to do with Mito?”

Hashirama laughed softly. “No, for once. I think Mito and I have… I don’t think this necessarily would need to concern her.”

“I see.” Tobirama looked back at the desk and sighed. “Brother, without any more information, there’s only so much I could possibly say. Is this some new activity you’re taking part in? Are you _doing_ something new?”

“Not really. It’s more like I’ve… gained perspective on something I’ve been doing for a while?” Hashirama laughed again and shook his head. “It sounds even worse when I put it like that…”

Tobirama shrugged. “Is it a _bad_ perspective? Is there something about this activity that no longer appeals to you in this new light?”

Hashirama’s cheeks puffed out in a slow exhale. “I’m… not sure.”

“You’re not sure if you like the new perspective or the activity?”

“Both?”

“Brother.” Tobirama rapped his knuckles on the arm of the chair. “I’m bad at giving advice. You know this, yet you persist with barraging me with these frustratingly vague questions.”

Hashirama blinked at him with large brown eyes. “You’ve never led me astray before.”

“I shudder to think what would happen if I did,” Tobirama replied. He leaned down and pulled open one of the drawers on the desk. “As it stands, I am either going to need more information to help you, or you are going to need to help yourself with this one, Hashirama.”

“What do you mean?” Hashirama said, cocking his head.

Tobirama withdrew a blank sheet of paper from the drawer and handed it to Hashirama. With crisp motions, he plucked a pen out of the holder on the desk. This, too, was offered to Hashirama. “I want you,” Tobirama said, pushing his chair back and standing, “to make a list.”

Hashirama stared at the pen and paper. “A list.”

“Yes.” Tobirama walked around to the other side of the chair and rested his hands on the back. “I am going down to the brewery floor to check on Tank number 3. I want to make sure the copper fittings are actually the right size. You will sit here,” his hands bounced once on the chair’s back, “and you will draft up a list of everything you _used_ to enjoy about this activity and everything you _didn’t_ enjoy about this activity. Then, you should do the same thing, but with the new context of this… perspective you say you’ve gained. There will be no need to show me this list. I have enough lists to look over as it is.”

“And this will help?” Hashirama said, obligingly switching seats.

Tobirama walked towards the office door. “Brother, I just want you to decide whether or not you _like_ whatever it is you’re doing. Then, if you’re _still_ having problems with Mr. Uchiha, come to me.”

“ _Tobirama_ –” Hashirama said, jolting to his feet.

“What? Oh, sorry – your _fishing_ rod. If we absolutely must, we’ll continue this talk after you’ve made the list.” Tobirama vanished around the oak doorframe before Hashirama could say another word.

Hashirama closed his mouth and lowered himself back into the chair, heart hammering in his ears. His nerves were soothed somewhat by the knowledge that Tobirama couldn’t possibly know the exact nature of his _problem_ with Madara Uchiha – he couldn’t, otherwise he’d have surely said something. Hell, a godly man like Tobirama probably would’ve told their father. Or maybe he already had, and the papers removing Hashirama from the family tree were posting from New York?

With the ease of an experienced dressage horse, Hashirama’s mind began galloping through the same circles as it had since that night in the barn. He stared down at the piece of paper and twirled the pen between his fingers.

If Tobirama suspected – and surely, if there was any hint of knowledge in him it was nothing more than suspicion, for how could he possibly know something about Hashirama’s attitude towards Madara when Hashirama himself hadn’t known it even a week prior? – then he was being uncharacteristically recalcitrant in voicing his criticism. Tobirama was a taciturn man on his face, but Hashirama knew full well that his brother was more than capable of voicing his displeasure when it suited him. Something as… abrupt and disturbing as Hashirama’s newly perverted sensibilities would scarce go unremarked. Thus, it followed that Tobirama couldn’t know. Which was fine. It was fine, because if Tobirama knew, there was a chance that he might tell Mito, and Mito…

Hashirama propped an elbow up on the desk and uncapped the pen. He held it over the smooth white paper for a tenuous second, then sat back in the chair and re-capped it slowly.

 _It’s only when you and Madara Uchiha get a little too close,_ Mito whispered in his memory.

Hashirama tucked his chin behind the fold of his collar and bit his tongue. Mito knew enough. He still wasn’t sure exactly she’d been referring to that afternoon, but in light of his recent discovery he couldn’t be too careful. For things to have degraded badly enough between them to merit a divorce would have been bad enough. Hashirama found himself deeply averse to the idea of threatening whatever fragile peace they’d made together – getting a divorce was bad, yes, but getting a divorce because he’d suddenly started showing _homosexual tendencies_? He’d be lucky if Butsuma didn’t come down from New York and shoot him in person.

He should just nip this burgeoning attraction in the bud and spare himself the inevitable blowback. Because Mito finding out was one thing; Tobirama finding out was another, to say nothing of Butsuma – but if _Madara himself_ found out?

Hashirama didn’t want him to find out. Hashirama didn’t want Madara to find out because Hashirama, frankly, had no idea how he would react. It was a baffling thing, honestly. Hashirama could reasonably consider himself a good judge of character – you couldn’t survive in a business environment like New York without being at least a _little_ good at reading people, after all – but the mercurial head of the Uchiha Clan was somehow still a mystery to him.

Part of Hashirama felt like he could reasonably assume Madara would be offended, then angry, in that order. He’d probably try to stab Hashirama with the nearest sharp object – except instead of the good-natured play-fighting they’d engaged in in the past, it would probably be an earnest attempt at murder. That is, assuming he didn’t go straight for his Colt. Then, assuming Hashirama survived the experience –

There was no way such a discovery wouldn’t end with Madara storming out the door and never looking back.

Hashirama tapped the end of the pen against the letter blotter and scowled. Tobirama made everything sound so _easy_. Make a list, he said. Just figure it out, he said. Hashirama eyed the stack of papers towering out of Tobirama’s inbox like it had insulted him. Tobirama never seemed to have issues with his personal affairs. His brother broke through the waves of personal interaction like the iron-clad hull of a steam ship. Hashirama pursed his lips. Maybe he did have a point about the list.

Hashirama uncapped the pen again and leaned forward, lowering the nib to the paper.

 _Things I Enjoy About Associating With Madara Uchiha,_ Hashirama wrote along the top of the paper in a scrawling hand.

  1. _He is very intelligent and interesting to talk to._



Oh, this would be easy. Hashirama hummed quietly to himself.

  1. _He has a deeply engaging point of view about a broad variety of topics._
  2. _He is an excellent marksman and is good at riding horses._
    1. _He can steer a horse with his thighs_



Hashirama paused, then scribbled over the last bullet point. He wrote a small number _4_ and paused again. Slowly, he began to write, _He is, personally, a very –_

Hashirama scribbled over the number 4 bullet point as well. This was rapidly devolving into a list about what he liked about Madara Uchiha himself, and not about what he liked about his acquaintanceship! Hashirama chewed on his tongue. Would that be such a bad thing, though, if he just wrote a list about that instead?

It certainly wasn’t what Tobirama would do. If Tobirama was in his position (which he never would be in the first place, rendering the exercise moot, but if he _was_ ) he would draw up a clinical cost-benefit analysis and determine exactly what he gained out of Madara’s presence in his life, what their association was costing him (if anything), sum up the totals then follow through with the conclusion. Tobirama would write, _He is the leader of a prominent local family_ , and _His association is providing us with easy access to distribution networks we might not have otherwise discovered_. He would also write, _He is distracting to me, personally, and probably putting both my life and my marriage at risk_ \- except he wouldn’t write that, again, because Tobirama would never allow things to degrade to this point in the first place.

But Hashirama wasn’t Tobirama, and he _had_ let things progress to this point. Hashirama hadn’t become the person he was today by being cold and clinical; he’d gotten to where he was today by being loud and gregarious and shaking hands and smiling too broadly in photographs.

Hashirama folded the paper crisply in half and rotated it 90 degrees. At the top of this new, smaller page, in a comparatively neater hand, he wrote, _Things I Enjoy About Madara Uchiha._

Then, with the confidence of a Babylonian king, he began to write. 

  1. _Madara can steer a horse with his thighs._
  2. _Madara is exceptionally handsome._
    1. _I really like his hair._
  3. _Madara is a deft marksman and a shrewd businessman, which makes him deeply engaging to talk to._
  4. _Madara has a good sense of humor and likes my jokes, even though he likes to pretend he doesn’t._
  5. _Madara is devoted to his family and the Lord (from a certain viewpoint)_
  6. _Madara has always been honest and forthright in his dealings with my family_
    1. _He doesn’t hesitate to rebuke if he feels it necessary – good because I know where I stand_
  7. _Madara has beautiful eyes_



Hashirama lifted the pen from the paper and held it in the air for a moment. He rested his chin on his other hand and reread his list. It seemed pretty solid. Hashirama considered briefly adding a bullet point praising more aspects of Madara’s physique, but going over the fine details of things like the way Madara filled out his limited wardrobe wasn’t going to bring Hashirama any new epiphanies any time soon. 

He flipped the page over and determinedly wrote, _Things I Dislike About Madara Uchiha._ Then he wrote a small, neat number _1_. His pen touched the paper. A second passed. A small pool of ink began to stain the paper, and he lifted the pen with a quiet, “ _Hm_.”

Hashirama sat back in his chair and considered. Was there anything he didn’t like about Madara? He quite enjoyed almost everything about the man, even things that, traditionally speaking, should have posed an obstacle to Hashirama’s sensibilities – the moonshine business, for one; Madara’s wild, unkempt hair; Madara’s tendency to turn to violence the second words failed him (and sometimes the second before).

But Hashirama found he really didn’t mind the moonshine business – it was a _family_ endeavor, and who could begrudge Madara for that? Illegality of the practice notwithstanding, Hashirama’s own newly-unearthed inclinations were just as illicit as an unlicensed distillery, so who was he to cast that stone?

Hashirama couldn’t even begin to care about the impropriety of the way Madara wore his hair or his clothes, so that was a non-issue as well. The man could dress like a giant pumpkin for all Hashirama knew about or cared for fashion. And his hair… well. His hair really, _really_ wasn’t a problem for Hashirama.

If Hashirama absolutely had to put something on this list, it would be the violence, but even then… Hashirama tapped the pen on the desk with a nervous energy. It would be a little obscene to admit it, even in the seclusion of his own mind – but then again, Hashirama had already been contemplating several shockingly obscene things lately, so why not add on another? Hashirama kind of _liked_ the violence. There was a heady rush that flooded his veins every time he grappled with the other man – something that made his heart pound in exhilaration the way few things ever could.

Hashirama didn’t consider himself a violent man, nor did he consider himself someone who liked to hold power over others. Hashirama wanted to work _with_ other people, as equals! He had no interest in conquering or dominion or winning just for winning’s sake. It was, as Butsuma had pointed out to him several times, one of his greatest failures as a businessman. But adding Madara into the equation…

The concept of beating Madara – not in any circumstances where anything was at stake, certainly not in any actual life-or-death scenario – but the idea of wrestling him into submission, of forcing him to his knees; the idea of Madara pulling on Hashirama’s hair like he’d done in the dining room, wrapping his legs around him and forcing Hashirama to use every ounce of strength just to _hold_ him and _keep him there –_

Hashirama suddenly remembered, with vicious clarity, how it had felt to pin Madara to the ground in the makeshift shooting range. He remembered the tremble in Madara’s arms as he held them behind his back; the hard press of his body against Hashirama’s as he bucked and struggled under him. He remembered seeing the flush spreading high on Madara’s cheeks between the locks of his coal-black hair and how the rasp of his voice had reverberated through his chest.

No, Hashirama could not, in good conscience, put violence on this particular list. So, the question remained, then: what didn’t he like about Madara Uchiha?

A long minute passed as Hashirama stared at the mostly-blank piece of paper, as if willing the words to materialize before his eyes. Then he sighed harshly and recapped the pen. “This is pointless,” he said aloud to the empty office. “What am I even trying to achieve here?”

The problem in question wasn’t whether or not he liked Madara Uchiha! He already knew he liked Madara Uchiha – that was the entire crux of the problem! If he was trying to draft up a list to weigh the pros and cons of their acquaintanceship, Hashirama would naturally have to account for the things he liked about Madara himself, and if he was going _that_ route, then there would be no question as to whether or not he should continue their acquaintanceship, because there were simply too many things about Madara that he liked, and too few that he didn’t!

Hashirama seized the paper off of the desktop with a sudden fury and crumpled it into a ball. What exactly was he so conflicted about? He liked Madara! That was simple. Madara tolerated him well enough, too, so that was good, right? Everything was fine! Why was he –

As Hashirama stared at the wadded-up lists in his hand, reality settled back over him like a mantle. The problem wasn’t whether or not he liked Madara Uchiha, and he knew it. The problem was what would happen if other people knew exactly what it was he was feeling, and the repercussions that would come from such knowledge.

Hashirama set the ball of paper delicately back on the letter blotter, and finally gave serious thought to ending his personal association with the head of the Uchiha clan. The list of pros and cons never bled through black ink on white paper; they were never spoken out loud. Hashirama folded his hands over his stomach, elbows resting on the armrests of the wooden office chair, and thought.

This list went something like this:

  1. _If Mito or Tobirama learn about my feelings for Madara Uchiha, they will tell Butsuma._
  2. _If Butsuma learns of this new deviance in his eldest son, he will disown me, strip me of any holding shares I have in his companies, and turn me out on the street – assuming he doesn’t kill me himself._
  3. _If Madara learns of how disrespectfully I’ve been thinking of him, he will either kill me or he’ll disappear for good._
  4. _If I cut things off now, the brewery will be able to work through Z. Small and H. Uchiha to finalize the barley and hops agreements._
  5. _I can find Mito new drinking partners. Cyprus Mayview is a bit of an alcoholic; maybe I could arrange for them to spend some time together._
    1. _Maureen Mayview would probably love to have access to a fresher source of gossip._
  6. _Personally, I will –_



Hashirama’s head rolled back until it touched the chair.

  1. _Once I cut things off with Madara, I will –_



One of his feet began to bounce lightly on its heel.

  1. _Without Madara around, I can –_



Hashirama raised a hand and rested his head on its tented fingers. The problem he was experiencing was very simple: now that he’d seen what life was like with Madara around, he was having trouble finding ways to conceive of what it would be like without him. How had he even occupied his time before coming here? Had there ever been a moment when he wasn’t composing Madara letters in his head? Was there ever a second, even before coming to this little enclave in the middle of nowhere, that he wasn’t yearning for their next meeting with every fiber of his being? If each of their meetings was a fencepost, Hashirama’s life was nothing but a thin strand, suspended, stretching in the spaces between, defined only by its anticipation for their next encounter. Had it always been like this? Did he know, even as a child, that he would end up back here some day? The idea that maybe their next meeting would be their last, that after a certain period there would be no more fence posts, no more meetings – where does that thin strand fall, then?

And that, frankly, settled things.


	20. Chapter 20

_Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging: and whosoever is deceived thereby is Blinded from His Eyes. - Proverbs 20:1_

“Odd to be doing this here,” Madara said, propping his feet up on the coffee table.

Mito swatted at his boots. “I’m _sick_ ,” she said crossly. “I can’t be traipsing through the rain just to have a drink. I’m sorry if our _décor_ offends your _sensibilities_.”

Illness notwithstanding, she took a long slug out of the wine bottle before passing it back to Madara. He rolled his eyes as he raised it to his lips.

The rain thundered against the parlor windows. The gas lamps on the walls cast dappled shadows over the dark green wallpaper. Mito sat in the middle of the low couch, swaddled in a dizzying number of heavy blankets and quilts. Immediately upon arrival, Madara had dragged Hashirama’s armchair away from its spot near the fireplace, thrown his coat over the back, and then himself into it. He was currently flipping idly through Hashirama’s massive botanical encyclopedia and passing a rapidly disappearing bottle of wine back and forth to the mound on the couch.

Mito took the bottle back from him and withdrew her arm back into the cavern of blankets. “Hashirama’s been acting very strange lately.”

Madara snorted. “Hashirama’s a strange man.”

“Acting stranger than _normal_.”

“Condolences.”

Mito huffed at him. “You could at least pretend to act concerned, given how –” She cut herself off by taking a swig out of the wine bottle.

“Given how, what?” Madara said flatly. He thumbed through the encyclopedia pages with one hand and extended his other for the bottle. “I’m not married to him, I don’t need to keep tabs on his health.”

Mito sullenly handed the bottle back to him and said nothing, burrowing deeper into the mountain of quilts.

“By the way,” Madara said quietly, lips centimeters from the bottle mouth. He was staring out at the rain pounding against the dark window. “I know we… agreed not to talk about it, but –”

“Yet here you are,” Mito said flatly. “Talking about it.”

Madara raised the bottle to his lips. The wine was beginning to stain them purple. “I’ll not speak on it overmuch,” he said, stretching the hand with the bottle back towards the couch. “Just wanted to thank you.”

“Thank me.”

“Well, I’m assuming you didn’t say anything to your husband about my…” Madara trailed off. He flipped through the pages of the encyclopedia with forced nonchalance. “You’d have had plenty of reasons to say something.”

“Not really,” Mito sighed, bringing the bottle into the cavern of blankets. “Things are a little different, now.” Madara cocked his head in her direction quizzically, but Mito didn’t notice. “And besides, if I said something, Hashirama might do something stupid and unpredictable – like move us even _deeper_ into the wilderness.” She shuddered. “Who would I drink with then?”

“Oh, I’m sure you’d find some hapless idiot to drown in cheap booze.” Madara’s dark black eyes were scanning a page in the _G_ section of the encyclopedia.

“Excuse you, this is _expensive_ wine. And you were the one drowning _me_ in booze, remember?”

“You’re really going to try and play the innocent party? Here? With me?” Madara let out a sharp bark of laughter and turned the page.

There was a clatter from the entryway as the front door opened. Madara’s hand stilled on the page as Hashirama called, “Hello!”

Mito cleared her throat from the couch. “In here,” she said, her voice rasping.

Madara twisted around in the armchair. Hashirama came around the corner, shucking off his wet overcoat, saying, “Unbelievable how quickly these storms –” His eyes met Madara’s and he froze.

Madara, whose last contact with Hashirama had been at the warehouse and had ended with a broken bottle and a lot of questions, wasn’t sure what he’d expected. A smile? A wave? Hashirama to come forward and try to hug him again, God forbid?

Whatever reaction Madara had been expecting, it certainly hadn’t been for Hashirama to immediately turn towards Mito and say, “Have a good evening, Mito!” and proceed up the stairs without a second glance.

Madara gawked at the doorway, then turned to stare, wide-eyed, at Mito. “What?” was all he could manage. “What was that?”

Mito looked smug as she raised the wine bottle once more. “I _told_ you there was something wrong with him.”

* * *

_Dear Father,_

_Thank you for your last letter. Things have been going well here. Tobirama assures me he’s been keeping you updated on the goings-on at the brewery, so I’ll not waste your time. Mito is well._

_Send Toka my regards._

_Your son,_

_Hashirama Senju_

* * *

Madara only half-listened as Gino introduced his ‘traveling companions.’ He whistled to his cousins to start moving the barrels over and handed the stack of cash to Hikaku without counting it.

* * *

Nezumi barged into Madara’s office without knocking and just barely managed to dodge the knife that was immediately flung at the door.

“Mr. Madara!” she exclaimed, seemingly unconcerned by the handle sticking out of the wood next to her head. “Mr. Madara, you have a letter!”

Madara was sitting slumped over in his office chair, his head resting on his desk. “Leave it here,” he said.

“No!” Nezumi said, marching deeper into the office and closing the door behind her.

Madara raised his head an inch off the table surface and glared at her balefully. “No?”

“No,” she repeated, drawing up to the desk. She presented the letter to him with both hands. “You’re a sad piece of shit! Hashirama Senju has written you a letter for the first time in two weeks, and I don’t trust you to respond!”

“Fuck off, Nezumi,” Madara said, head falling back onto the rough desk surface with a _thud_.

“I _know_ you’re excited that he wrote you, you’re just pretending not to care!” Nezumi said. She had the gall to reach over and seize his ponytail, pulling his head back to stare in his eyes. “So you’re going to read it, and I’m going to write you a response!”

Madara was too stunned by her impetuosity to slap her hand away, but wasn’t stunned enough not to seize another knife.

Nezumi threw the letter onto the desk and took two scrambling steps backwards, out of arms reach. “Read it!” she demanded.

Madara glowered at her with abject loathing, then sliced open the small envelope. His coal black eyes softened almost imperceptibly as they scanned over the looping handwriting. Nezumi craned her head over his shoulder.

_Madara,_

_It’s been a while! Let’s get drinks at the Red Grass Saloon this Thursday._

_Hashirama_

“Is that it?” Nezumi asked, disappointed. She snatched the paper out of Madara’s hands and turned it over. “There’s no more?”

“What were you _expecting_?” Madara snapped, ripping the letter out of her grasp.

“Dramatic declarations! Illicit fantasies! A poem! Anything!” Nezumi huffed. “You don’t even _need_ to write a response to that, you just need to _go_. How boring!”

“Yes, exactly,” Madara said. “How boring. My affairs are very, very dull, Nezumi, you really ought to find something more entertaining to focus your efforts on.”

Nezumi laughed. “Maybe so, but you know what _isn’t_ boring, Mr. Madara?”

Madara squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Do I want to know?”

Nezumi leaned down and whispered a number into his ear.

Madara’s eyes went wide. “Exactly how many people are betting on this?” he demanded, twisting around to stare at her.

Nezumi started counting off on her fingers. “Let’s see… Yozora’s families, Kazumi’s entire distillery, Kuro, Sachiko, Tomiko, Hikaku, myself, Maureen Mayview –”

“Wait, _Maureen Mayview_ put down a bet on –”

“Mrs. Mayview’s responsible for half the pot!” Nezumi said, baring her teeth in a feral grin. “She really upped the stakes for everybody. I think she sees _potential_!”

“Doesn’t the bible say something about usury?” Madara said, looking haggard. He waved a hand at toward the door. “You have work to do, Nezumi. Get the fuck out of my office.”

* * *

It wasn’t that Hashirama didn’t want to see Madara. It was quite the contrary, actually. It had been almost two weeks since the Warehouse Incident, as Hashirama had taken to calling it in his mind, and although he and Madara had certainly spent longer apart in the time he’d lived here, he could never recall a time when he’d felt his absence quite so keenly. It was, frankly, a distinctly unwelcome feeling, now that Hashirama knew its source. Would that he could say his longing for the other man’s company had a more wholesome root! Every time Hashirama was reminded of Madara’s eyes, his hair, the small scars that crisscrossed over his knuckles like lacework, the reminder was accompanied now by the dull sense of disappointment and disgust.

Even so, Hashirama still wanted to see Madara. As such, on a Thursday evening, bundled against the growing autumn chill, Hashirama saddled up on the dappled gray horse and rode out to the slowly growing hub at the center of the City of Konoha. He passed the skeletal frames of houses under construction, and smiled at the workers lounging on the front steps.

The Red Grass Saloon had grown a little. Ed, the bartender, had commissioned a crew to build a small annex on the far side of the building. The bar was now larger than the church opposite it.

Hashirama guided his horse to the hitching post and tied off the reins. Then he straightened his coat, took a deep breath, and walked into the bar.

“Evenin’,” Ed grunted from behind the counter. He was pouring a drink for a dour-looking man in a tweed coat that Hashirama didn’t recognize.

“Evening,” Hashirama said, looking around. The bar was almost empty. There was a small band of Uchihas playing dice in the far corner – but beyond them and the man in the tweed jacket, Hashirama was the only other patron. He walked up to the polished wood of the bar. “Have you seen Madara Uchiha tonight, by chance?”

“Not yet,” Ed said.

The man in the tweed coat turned his head imperceptibly to stare at Hashirama out of the corner of his eye.

Hashirama caught his gaze and smiled warmly. “Hello!” he said, extending a hand. “I’m Hashirama Senju. It’s a pleasure!”

The man paused, then uncurled his fingers from around the whiskey tumbler and wrapped them around Hashirama’s hand in a cold grip. “Morello,” he said in a rasp. “Peter Morello.”

“You’re not from around here, are you?” Hashirama said, drawing closer. “You’ve got a bit of an accent to you. Chicago, maybe?”

Peter Morello narrowed his eyes. “Might be.”

“Can I get you something to drink, Mr. Senju?” Ed asked, already pulling out another glass.

“Sure! I’ll just have whatever Mr. Morello’s having,” Hashirama said.

As Ed slid him the glass over the polished bar, the door to the saloon opened with a rush of cold wind.

“Boss!” Came the joyous cry from the corner. “Come play with us!”

Uchiha Madara shook the wild tangle of his hair as he stepped into the bar. Water droplets shed like mist. It must have started to rain outside. “No thanks, Tanaka,” Madara said. His eyes lingered on the man in the tweed coat, then fell, at last, on Hashirama. “Evening,” he said.

Warmth bloomed in Hashirama’s chest. He smiled at him and lifted his drink.

Peter Morello threw back the rest of his whiskey and slid off the stool.

“Leaving so soon, Peter?” Madara drawled, angling himself between the bar and the door. The group of Uchihas in the corner went silent and still.

“You know him?” Hashirama asked blankly.

Peter Morello twisted around to glance at Hashirama with a cold eye. “Got a long way to go,” he said, looking back at Madara. “Our business for the evening is concluded, Mr. Uchiha.”

“I should hope so,” Madara said. “But it’s raining mighty hard out there. You leave now, you might end up getting lost, and then where would we be?”

“I’m willing to take that chance,” Peter Morello said. “Like I said, I’ve got a long way to go.”

“Is that so?” Madara said, eyes narrow. “Well, I’d be a poor host to let you go off alone like this. Tanaka.” Tanaka shot to his feet. “Could I trouble you and your boys to accompany Mr. Morello, here?”

Tanaka’s eyes flicked between Madara and the man in the tweed coat. “No trouble at all,” he said, pulling his coat off the back of his chair. Hashirama could see the glint of a pistol at his belt as he pulled the dark wool over his shoulders. The other Uchihas stood, as well.

“That’s quite unnecessary, Mr. Uchiha.”

“I wish it were, Peter.” Madara stepped closer. He was shorter than the other man, but his presence dominated the room. “Tanaka and his boys’ll make sure you make it back safe ‘n sound. Won’t you, Tanaka?”

“Yessir.”

“If that’s how it’s gotta be,” Peter breathed. His fingers twitched at his side.

“Give Joe my regards,” Madara said as he stepped aside. Tanaka walked up and placed a hand on Peter Morello’s shoulder. There was another cold rush of wind as the door to the saloon opened – and then they were gone.

Hashirama stared at Madara, glass forgotten on the bar beside him. “What the hell did I just witness?”

“Hospitality,” Madara said, staring at the door with dark intensity. Then he rolled his shoulders heaved a heavy sigh as he turned and stalked up to the bar. “Anyway. How’ve you been?”

“Not bad,” Hashirama said. He turned to Ed, opening his mouth to ask for a second glass of whiskey for Madara – but before he could say anything, Madara’s fingers had curled around Hashirama’s forgotten tumbler and he was raising it to his own lips.

Madara’s eyes were dark on Hashirama’s face as the glass touched the bar top again. “You like this swill?” he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling in an unsaid grin. “This is Ed’s worst bottle.” He licked the liquor off his lips and turned to the bartender, who was already pouring him something else. It skidded across the bar surface towards him. “Much obliged.” Madara said, wrapping his fingers around the glass. Then he held it out to Hashirama. “Try this one instead.”

Hashirama’s eyes fell from Madara’s burning gaze, to his lips, to the glass of whiskey being offered to him.

“Go on,” Madara said, giving the glass a shake. “Not poison. I promise.”

Hashirama took the glass. The liquor was smooth on his tongue. He held it back out for Madara to reclaim. “Not bad,” he said as its warmth curled down his throat.

Madara set the tumbler on the bar and pulled up a stool. “Better than the stuff my family’s selling, that’s for damn sure. That’s what you get when you have time to actually age corn liquor.”

Hashirama smiled as he rested his hand on his own glass. “How’s business?” he asked, eyes resting – safely – on Madara’s left elbow.

Madara’s sigh hissed through his teeth. “Well,” he said, swirling the whiskey. “It had been going pretty well, up until about ten minutes ago. We’ll see if Tanaka can salvage the situation.”

“What _was_ the situation, by the way?”

Madara’s grin was little more than a flash of teeth. His eyes slid towards Hashirama. “The same damn thing it’s been for the past year, honestly. Don’t worry about it.” He drained his glass. “It’s taken care of.”

“Hm,” Hashirama said. He raised his own cup to his lips, then immediately set it back down without taking a drink. “You’re not in any danger, are you?” Hashirama asked quietly, drumming his fingers against his thigh.

Madara shifted on his seat so that his torso was angled towards Hashirama. He held out the whiskey glass for Ed to refill without looking away. “You worried?”

Hashirama still wasn’t looking at him directly. He didn’t trust himself to look away from the bottle of gin on the far wall, at this point. “A little,” he said. “The Morello family’s not the easiest one to work with.” He raised the glass again, finally taking sip of his own whiskey. Madara was right – it was terrible. He might as well get it over with. Hashirama drank the rest of the whiskey in a single gulp and shook his head sharply as it burned his tongue.

“You know them?”

“Not personally.” Hashirama raised his empty glass towards Ed. “I’ll have whatever Madara’s having. Thanks.”

“Won you over, huh?”

Hashirama finally looked Madara in the eye. He was smiling, glass half-raised to his lips. As Hashirama’s head turned, his hand stilled. The smile slowly faded as the silence grew.

“Think you did, yeah,” Hashirama said softly. Ed pushed the glass back towards him. Hashirama’s fingers curled around it.

Madara’s eyes were darker than the night sky. His glossy black hair hung over his shoulders in heavy waves. It was curling slightly on the ends as the rainwater dried in the heat of the bar. “Something on your mind?” Madara asked, raising the glass up to his lips. The words hit Hashirama like a train.

“Not at all,” Hashirama said. He swallowed the lump in his throat with the first draught of whiskey. It had tasted better in Madara’s glass.

Madara rested his elbows back on the bar and set the whiskey glass down with a soft _thud_. “You should come visit the warehouse again, sometime,” Madara said, eyes drifting over the heavy wooden shelves behind the bar. “Might get a chance to show you how to ride a horse before the snow hits, if we’re lucky.”

“Didn’t I win that one race?” Hashirama said, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He rested an elbow on the bar as well and leaned forward, bending to catch Madara’s eye. “I distinctly remember winning that race.”

“You remember _cheating_ ,” Madara said crossly. He lifted the glass back up to his lips.

“How does one _cheat_ at a horse race?” Hashirama asked.

“You figured it out, somehow,” Madara grumbled. He paused, and the playful belligerence melted away. “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he began, then abruptly took another drink of whiskey.

Hashirama watched the line of his throat as he swallowed and said, “Yes?”

Madara’s fingers drummed once on the tabletop. “What’s your plan?” he said at last, looking away.

Hashirama blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’ve accomplished your goal. You’ve built the brewery. You made this little shithole into a proper town. You’ve got pigs like Cyprus Mayview ‘fanning the flames of industry,’ or whatever the hell it was he said in that speech.” Madara licked his lips again as his head turned the barest degree back towards Hashirama. “So, what’s next for you, Mr. Senju? Back to New York?”

There was a different question in the curve of Madara’s mouth and the crease between his eyebrows. Hashirama let out a low breath and set his glass on the counter. “I don’t think so,” he said. Madara’s eyes flicked up to his before breaking away. “My brother might go somewhere else, I think. If our father sends him somewhere else. I know he’s been talking about all the opportunities down south.”

“But you would stay?” Madara asked.

Hashirama swirled his glass in a circle on the polished wood. “I think I would,” he said at last.

“Even if Butsuma asks you to go?” There was something like a challenge in Madara’s voice. “He might need you to go spend his money for him in some other backwater. What then?”

Hashirama looked at him. “What then,” he echoed, frowning slightly. “Do you _want_ me to leave?”

Madara lifted his glass back to his lips. “What about Mito? You know she hates it here. What if she wants to move?”

Hashirama laughed, surprising them both. He took a sip of whiskey, smile lingering on his mouth. As the glass thudded back down onto the bar, he tilted his head towards Madara and said, “Have I ever stopped her from going _anywhere_?”

Madara snorted. “I suppose not.” Another pause that sat heavy in the air. Then: “You’re an odd man, Hashirama. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Never,” Hashirama said, and watched the whiskey catch the light as Madara raised it to his mouth.

“You know,” Madara said, his tongue darting out to brush his lower lip, “since we’re on the subject – why _did_ you get married?”

Hashirama cleared his throat. “Huh?”

Madara raised his eyebrows in amusement. “It just seemed a little… abrupt.” He shrugged, a languid roll of his shoulders that seemed too careless not to be deliberate. “I know Mito’s side of things, but the two of us… we’ve never really talked about it, have we?”

They hadn’t talked about it because Hashirama had been studiously avoiding the subject for the entire duration of their acquaintanceship. Hashirama toyed with the plain, golden wedding band on his finger and chewed over his words. “Mito is… a beautiful woman,” Hashirama said at last.

Madara stared at him for a long minute then let out a single, sharp bark of laughter. He tossed back his drink. “’Mito is a beautiful woman,’” he repeated, chuckling.

“What?” Hashirama asked defensively. “She is!”

“Oh, sure,” Madara said, leaning an elbow on the bar and resting his cheek on a loose fist. “And you knew that before you met her, did you?”

“What are you getting at?” Hashirama said. He swirled the whiskey in the bottom of his glass and frowned at it.

“Hashirama…” Madara sighed, then leaned forward, letting his hand fall against the surface of the bar. He caught Hashirama’s eye with his coal-black gaze. “I probably know more about your marriage than you do. Why did you agree to get married?”

Hashirama wanted to look away. His heart was pounding in his ears. He opened his mouth, but the words snagged on the back of his tongue. What was he afraid of admitting? “My father’s not someone you say no to,” Hashirama said.

Madara still smelled like pipe smoke. He was close enough that Hashirama could taste it on every breath.

“So it was all your father’s idea?” Madara said.

“It was his idea for me to move out here in the first place,” Hashirama retorted.

Madara sat back on his stool, face suddenly empty of emotion. “I see,” he said.

Hashirama turned away, busying himself with pulling out his wallet. “I need to go,” he said, throwing a five dollar bill onto the bar. “Thanks for drinking with me. Keep the change, Ed.”

Madara was on his feet in an instant. He snagged Hashirama’s arm as he walked out of the bar. The rain had stopped; the sky was clear outside. Hashirama’s horse snorted at him from under the awning. The moon was full overhead, painting the church and the surrounding area a clear, pale blue.

“Hashirama,” Madara said. Words seemed to fail him after that.

Hashirama pulled his arm free.

“Wait,” Madara said, grabbing at him again. “Wait, listen to me.”

“What?” Hashirama asked, turning back to him exasperatedly. “What shall we discuss next, hmm? We’ve covered what a bad husband I am – what next? Will we talk about how I can’t balance a checkbook without Tobirama’s help? Or how I handed over control of the town to Cyprus Mayview? Or –” Hashirama’s jaw reflexively clamped shut. If he started down this list, it would only be a matter of time before he said something he would regret.

“I do have one more question for you,” Madara said. Hashirama noticed that his hand was still holding onto his sleeve. Madara’s face looked alien in the moonlight. His hair bled into the blackness of the night surrounding them. He looked like some kind of ancient spirit, some holy and dangerous thing that came down from a mountain wearing a dreamer’s idea of a human face. Hashirama’s soul shivered in his bones, and every terrible scrap of him yearned.

“What’s your question?” Hashirama asked, pulling Madara’s hand from his sleeve once more.

“What have I done to earn your ire?” Madara asked quietly, eyes boring holes into him in the moonlight. “I’m not much accustomed to apologies, but it seems I owe you one for some transgression, though I know not which. Just tell me what I did, please. Let me apologize, and let us go back to –”

Hashirama felt something like hysteria crawl into his lungs. “No,” he said, fighting down something that would either emerge as a scream or a sob. “No, Madara, you have it wrong. You don’t – you didn’t do anything. I’m sorry. I’m so –” Hashirama broke off, forcing out a hollow laugh as he raised his hands to scrub at his face. “It’s my fault. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“What is going on?” Madara asked, clearly confused. He threw up his hands. “If I’ve done nothing wrong, then why the sudden shift? You don’t need me to explain, I’m sure. You used to –”

Hashirama cut him off. “I know,” he said. “I know what I used to do. I’m sorry. It won’t continue.”

Madara stared at him. The abyss of his eyes roved over Hashirama’s face, until he finally looked away. “Well,” he said, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Would you allow me to visit, at least? Or you can come visit me – it doesn’t matter to me –”

“Of _course_ ,” Hashirama said, catching Madara by the shoulders. “Of course, Madara – I’m not – please, let’s just –”

“Act like nothing is wrong?” Madara asked, the wry twist of his mouth at odds with the wild look in his eyes.

“Yes,” Hashirama said desperately. “You can come to my house, or – or I can go there, and we can still drink, and we’ll just –”

“But something is wrong,” Madara said, and those words cut Hashirama as surely as if it had been one of Madara’s knives. “Something is wrong, and you won’t tell me what.”

Hashirama shook his head, searching desperately for words. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t. I can’t.”

Madara raised a hand to rest on Hashirama’s arm. “Fine,” he said. “Fine. If this is what I am allowed – then fine. I’ll take it.” He pulled Hashirama’s hands off of his shoulders and pushed him gently towards the horse. “Go on, Hashirama. I’ll write to you soon.”

Hashirama dithered. “Madara –”

“Unless you’re going to tell me whatever it is that’s changed your attitude towards me in such a manner, I don’t need to hear it, Hashirama.” Madara’s voice was like a whip cracking. “Go home.” He didn’t wait to see if Hashirama followed his orders. The black tangle of his outline disappeared into the darkness, and Hashirama was left alone.


	21. Chapter 21

_The Perfect Susano’o the same yesterday, and to day, and for ever. - Hebrews 13:8_

The stables outside the Sharingan Breweries warehouse were dark and empty. Lights and sound spilled out of the warehouse’s open loft – production was in full swing. Insects buzzed loudly in the still-damp grass.

Hikaku folded his arms and leaned against the stall door. “Then what happened?”

“But by the time we caught up to the horse, he was long gone,” Tanaka said, pushing the wet black hair out of his eyes. “Teuchi ran after him for a while, but I’m not too worried. Without a ride, he won’t make it far.”

“Be that as it may,” Hikaku said, scratching his chin. “You’re sure he recognized Mr. Senju?”

“Yeah.” Tanaka shifted uncomfortably. “Mr. Senju’s a hard man to mistake, if you get my meaning.”

“I do,” Hikaku said. His frown intensified. “I’m worried this Mr. Morello is going to cause problems for us. Assuming he makes it back.”

“Mr. Madara should’ve just killed him,” Tanaka said, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“Who? Mr. Morello?”

“No,” Tanaka said uneasily. “Mr. Senju. That’s what this was all about, right?”

“I trust Mr. Madara’s judgment on the matter,” Hikaku said, eyes narrowing.

“As do I,” Tanaka said hastily, pulling a hand out of his pocket and waving it. “Don’t mistake my meaning, Mr. Hikaku. I’m sure he has his reasons. But –”

“He didn’t kill him,” Hikaku said flatly. “That’s all there is to it. We need to deal with this situation and make sure Mr. Morello’s… _encounter_ doesn’t come back to bite us.”

Tanaka shifted anxiously on the straw-covered floor. “How do you mean?”

Hikaku rubbed at one eye. “Go find Nezumi. She should still be staying with Yozora. Meet me here with her, your nephews, and a wagon at 8 o’clock tomorrow.”

“What are we doing?”

Hikaku sighed heavily, then looked through his fingers at Tanaka with a resigned eye. “Road maintenance.”

* * *

Mrs. Cooper, to her dull horror, had become rather accustomed to having Uchihas around the Senju estate. Nezumi was a common enough sight these days – common enough that Mrs. Cooper knew to confiscate all weapons, knives, pens, ink, and paint from her person before allowing her over the threshold. The upholstery suffered with every visit, regardless. Mr. Madara was a decent enough guest, even if every room he entered began to reek of pipe smoke after 30 minutes. His associate, Hikaku, was fine as well – Mrs. Cooper had unconsciously filed him in the same category as Mr. Tobirama, and was content enough to leave them both with a carafe of hot coffee and go about her business.

As the stern-looking horses pulled the wagon up the path, Mrs. Cooper dropped the sheet she’d been pinning to the clothesline.

She may be accustomed to seeing an Uchiha here or there, but there was little she could have done to prepare for seeing fifteen of them all at once.

Hikaku Uchiha whistled at the horses and the carriage rolled to a stop outside the small stables. Men with ragged black hair began to disembark the wagon, looking all the world like soldiers preparing to lay siege. Nezumi scrambled down after them, her skirts catching on the rough wood, a vicious grin scraped over her cheeks.

“Mrs. Cooper!” Hikaku called, waving at her across the lawn.

Mrs. Cooper dumbly gathered the fallen sheet into her arms and began to walk towards him. “Mr. Uchiha,” she said. “May I help you?”

“Is Hashirama Senju in?” Hikaku asked, reaching into his coat pocket. The mob behind him began to move towards the direction of the house.

“I’m afraid not,” Mrs. Cooper said, watching them anxiously. A few were standing on tiptoe, trying to see in the windows. “He’s down at the brewery with Mr. Tobirama. You’ll have to come back later.”

“No, this is perfect,” Hikaku said, pulling a notebook out of his jacket. He licked his thumb and flicked through a few pages. “Nezumi!” She appeared at his elbow, still grinning like a child at a carnival. “How many crates?”

“Twenty!”

“Twenty,” Hikaku repeated wearily. “How the hell did you get twenty crates in there all by yourself?”

“Who said I was by myself, Mr. Hikaku?” Nezumi said, winking obnoxiously. “Come on! The cellar door’s this way!”

“Cellar door?” Mrs. Cooper said, flabbergasted. “Are we about to be robbed, Mr. Uchiha?”

“Absolutely not,” Hikaku said crisply. “You’ll thank me for this, Mrs. Cooper. Is the cellar unlocked?”

“It is, boss!” called one of the men from around the corner of the house.

Mrs. Cooper bundled the sheet tighter and her arms and took off at a brisk trot towards the voice. “You can’t just barge in there as you please!” she called angrily.

Hikaku jogged after her, catching her by the shoulder. “Mrs. Cooper,” he said. “We are not taking anything from the Senju family. I promise. Just wait a moment.”

Even as he spoke, one of the men rounded the corner of the house. Mrs. Cooper’s mouth opened, fiery admonishment at the ready, then her eyes fell upon the open crate he was carrying.

“Got the first box, boss.”

“Excellent.” Hikaku made a mark in his ledger. “Load the wagon from the center, please.”

Mrs. Cooper felt faint. She boggled at the man’s back as he lumbered towards the wooden carriage. “Is that… _dynamite_?”

Hikaku gave her a thin smile. “I told you you’d thank me, didn’t I?”

* * *

The ability to compartmentalize was a skill that Mrs. Cooper had had decades to refine. Mrs. Cooper watched the men load the wagon, then finished the laundry, then went inside to help John Cooper prepare dinner. Mrs. Cooper did not think about the dynamite. Mrs. Cooper did not wonder where it went.

The dinner that night was delicious.

* * *

The pale moonlight filtered through the curtains. Hashirama rolled over onto his side and stared at the faint shadows on the far wall. Each night was colder than the last.

Hashirama fell onto his back and willed himself to fall asleep. It didn’t work this time, just as it hadn’t worked the twenty or so times prior. Every time Hashirama closed his eyes, all he could see was Madara. He’d had this problem before – the night after their first meeting in the bar came to mind, the wild rush of the knife sliding through his fingers – but his old remedy of prayers and deliberate ignorance weren’t doing much to help him now. Hashirama couldn’t pretend he didn’t know why Madara lingered in the space behind his eyelids. Maybe the prayers weren’t helping to clear his mind because God was just as tired of his excuses as Hashirama was.

Madara’s fingers on the rim of his whiskey glass; the sheen of his lips where his tongue had chased after the liquor left there; his dark wool suit pulling at the hard lines of his body as he leaned towards Hashirama over the distance between their stools, the half-smile as he asked, “You worried?”

Hashirama groaned out loud and flipped over onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow.

Madara’s hair had been unbound in the bar. Hashirama’s fingers clenched against the cotton sheets. He wondered what it would be like to run his hands through that hair. He wondered what it would be like to pull it back, out of Madara’s face; to pull it down, and back, until the base of Madara’s neck was exposed, and Madara was forced to sink to his knees –

Hashirama wondered what it would be like to touch Madara, as if he was allowed to, as if it was Madara who’d stood next to him at the church altar. It was ridiculous, of course – but still, Hashirama wondered. What would it be like to come up behind Madara, to wrap his arms around him, to kiss him in the hollows of his collarbones? What would it be like to live in this dream world where Madara welcomed Hashirama’s touch, and reciprocated it?

Hashirama imagined Madara turning to him, warmth in the corners of his dark eyes, to reach out and pull Hashirama closer, to tangle their hands and their limbs, to use those dexterous fingers to unbutton down Hashirama’s shirt as he licked into Hashirama’s mouth –

Hashirama stifled a moan. His hips rocked against the bed.

Hashirama thought about Madara as he’d looked after their horse race, breathless and windswept, pipe dangling from his smiling mouth as he’d hung the tackle back on the wall. Hashirama thought about their brawl in the dining room, the tension in Madara’s shoulders as Hashirama pinned him to the bloodstained rug, the solid weight of his thighs as he’d wrapped them backwards around Hashirama’s torso – the _strength_ of those thighs, what they would feel like around his hips, his arms –

Hashirama’s breath caught in his throat. One hand twisted the sheets under his pillow. If Hashirama hadn’t already been so sure that God wasn’t listening to him anymore, he might’ve prayed that He look away. But that night, the shuddering prayer that crossed Hashirama’s lips was not meant for the Lord. The name he breathed into the palm of his hand, heavy and hushed with reverence, was not God on High.

Under the pale shadow of the moon, Hashirama Senju quaked, and let himself come undone.

* * *

Zechariah Small beamed out at his congregation. “And so the Lord provides, does he not? Let us pray.”

Tobirama solemnly dipped his head. After a moment, he sharply elbowed Hashirama in the side. Hashirama started, looking around the sanctuary, and bowed his head as well. Mito snorted from his other side.

“Amen,” Tobirama intoned along with the rest of the congregation as the prayer ended. He shot Hashirama a narrow side-eye. His brother looked distracted, which wasn’t unusual – but it _was_ in the middle of a church service, and Hashirama normally had enough tact to at least _pretend_ to pay attention.

Something must be wrong. Again.

As the service ended, Tobirama caught Mito’s eye and cocked his head briefly in Hashirama’s direction. Her face twisted slightly, but she nodded all the same, gathering her skirts and following her husband out the church doors.

* * *

Hashirama plodded down the short stairs to the gravel path, soaking in the rays of sunshine. It was really a very pleasant day. Maybe he should go see if Madara was busy? They hadn’t gone on a walk together in a while.

The thought had barely crossed his mind before he remembered that it hadn’t even been 24 hours since he’d debased himself to the mere thought of the man. Shame pooled in Hashirama’s gut as he stood aimlessly on the fine, white gravel.

“Hashirama,” came Mito’s voice from behind his shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“Hm?” Hashirama asked, spinning around. “Oh, Mito! You surprised me!”

“Did I?” Mito asked dryly. She took him by the arm and tugged him out of the way as Mrs. Cooper and her family began to file out of the open doors. “What’s on your mind, husband?”

“Oh, nothing of any import,” Hashirama assured her, laughing. “I was just – well, it’s a nice day outside, and –” A brilliant idea occurred to him. “Say, Mito, would you mind coming with me to go see Madara?”

Mito blinked at him, eyebrows raised. “You want me to come with you? Whatever for?”

Hashirama blushed. “Well, it is a nice day.”

Mito nodded slowly, looking around them at the clear blue sky. “It is, yes.”

“And I thought, well, why not see if Madara would want to go on a walk?”

Mito’s forehead scrunched as she stared up at him. “So, why do you want me to come along? I have absolutely no interest in this. You know that.”

Hashirama floundered. “Well, I know, but – I don’t – I’m worried –” His mouth quickly snapped shut, but it was too late.

Mito’s face darkened with concern. “You’re worried?” she said. “Has something happened?”

“No, no, not at all!” Hashirama said hastily, raising his hands.

“Hashirama, you can tell me. What happened? What’s going on? Did Madara say something to you?”

“He didn’t say anything, he’s my friend, it’s fine –”

Mito squinted at him. “He’s your friend. Hashirama, did he –” She paused, pursing her lips. Carefully, she continued, “Has Madara Uchiha given you any reason to _doubt_ your friendship?”

“ _No_ ,” Hashirama said.

“He didn’t say or do anything that made you uncomfortable in any way?”

“Of _course_ not, Mito, what are you implying?”

Mito’s face cleared. “Well, that’s good. I’m implying nothing, husband. Go have fun traipsing through the mud with your friend. I’ll tell Mrs. Cooper to ready the bandages when we get home.”

Hashirama wrung his hands despairingly. “But, Mito –”

Mito rolled her eyes. “What, are you worried you’re going to say something to _offend_ him? Is that why you want me there?”

“I – well –” Hashirama slumped. “A little?”

Mito laughed. “Hashirama,” she said, patting him on the elbow. “If Mr. Uchiha hasn’t killed you yet, he’s not _going_ to. I daresay you could strip naked and run through his warehouse and he’d do little more than grumble about it.”

Hashirama’s face went scarlet. _“Mito!”_

“What? It’s true.” Mito laughed again and turned back to the front of the church. “I’ll tell the others where you’ve gone. Have fun, my dear.”

Hashirama watched her trot back to the waiting carriage, where Mr. Cooper was adjusting the harness on a large bay mare. He glanced over his shoulder at the dense line of trees behind the church. The leaves were beginning to turn; the fiery red and orange foliage cut a striking line between forest and sky.

Hashirama looked back to the carriage, but even as he did so, his feet began to move him towards the Sharingan Breweries Warehouse.


	22. Chapter 22

_The Lord is good, Susano’o’s unbreakable armor in the day of trouble; and he knoweth them that trust in him. - Nahum 1:7_

It was Sunday, a little past noon. Madara read over the order and snorted. “This is it?” he said, handing it back to Hikaku. “We’ll be done by this afternoon. Get Yozora in here to fix that boiler, then we’re in full production until this order’s filled.”

“Understood, boss.”

Madara began to walk back to his office, pulling his pipe out of his coat and calling over his shoulder, “And if Kuro does so much as _touch_ that still, I want you to cut his hand off – he’s not to work until his arm is _completely_ healed this time, got it?”

* * *

Miles to the north, a group of thirty men in dark suits disembarked a passenger train.

“Where were we getting those horses from?”

“Farm little ways south of here.”

“We’ll need them?”

“Definitely.”

“Seems like a lot of trouble to go through over a sour deal.”

“Oh, so you’re leading this operation?”

“That’s not what I meant, sir.”

“Then shut the fuck up. Come on. We’ve got a ways to go.”

* * *

Hashirama ducked under a tree branch, humming softly to himself. The dead leaves crunched underfoot as he followed the faint trail through the woods.

* * *

“Thirty six, thirty seven… Mr. Madara, we’re short one bottle.”

“Nezumi.”

“I don’t have it!”

“ _Nezumi_.”

“I don’t – hey! Sachiko! You _whore_ , you –”

“Thank you, Sachiko. Hikaku.”

“Thirty eight. All accounted for.” Hikaku made a mark on the ledger. “We’re ready to seal this crate, then. I’ll have Tanaka get the wagon ready.”

* * *

Sharp hooves cut deep tracks into the badly-maintained dirt road. Horses tossed their heads and rolled their eyes, snorting as they trotted through tall trees. Bullets clinked in cases; guns were inspected by bored riders.

“It’s a matter of trust,” said the man at the front of the line.

* * *

“Excuse me,” Hashirama said to one of the men loitering outside the warehouse. “Is Madara here?”

The men exchanged visibly amused glances. “He just left,” said the one closest to Hashirama. “Business.”

“Oh,” Hashirama said, deflating a little. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

One of the men pulled a wrinkled dollar bill out of his overalls and passed it to the other Uchiha.

“Couple hours or so,” said the one nearest Hashirama. “Why?”

Hashirama watched the group of Uchihas watch him, feeling a little like a caged animal at a zoo. “Uh,” he said. “No reason, really.”

“Really,” came the flat response. The man folded his arms and cocked his head. “Well, you could wait here with us, if it suits you.”

* * *

“Might I say, it was so nice to do business with you again, Mr. Jacobs.” Madara’s smile was wolf-like around the ivory mouthpiece of his pipe. He sat in the coachman’s seat of his carriage and watched Yozora load the wagon with two rattling crates.

Mr. Jacobs daubed at his forehead. “Likewise,” he said. “We’ll be placing another order soon, for the winter.”

“Will you be wanting casks or bottles?” Hikaku asked, notebook at the ready.

“I’m, ah – not exactly sure yet,” Mr. Jacobs said. “I’ll let you know. Probably casks, though.”

* * *

The bullet split the low-hanging branch in half. Whoops and cheers sounded off along the line of horses.

“Don’t waste your fucking ammo,” snarled the man at the front of the line. “You’re going to need it with these lunatics.”

* * *

“Right, but if you hold it like _this_ , the barrel won’t sway as much,” Hashirama said, demonstrating. He pulled the trigger and the distant bottle shattered in a spray of glass.

“Goddamn,” said the owner of the gun, squinting at the distant target. “He wasn’t lyin’, was he?”

“Who, Madara?” Hashirama laughed, returning the rifle to its bemused owner. “Was he talking about me?”

“We can’t get him to shut _up_ about you, sometimes,” scoffed one of the others. “So you can fire a carbine just fine, but how are you with handguns?”

* * *

“You seem distracted,” Hikaku said, swinging up onto the bench next to Madara.

“Do I?” Madara said, gathering the reins and whistling sharply to their crew.

“Yes.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Madara said as Yozora and the others climbed into the back.

“He’s probably free, if you want me to take over the warehouse for the evening.”

“I _said_ don’t worry about it.”

* * *

The ride back to the warehouse was short. The brilliant blue sky cast dappled shadows over the path as the wagon trundled through the trees. Madara flicked the reins as they rounded the last bend in the road –

– and there, standing head and shoulders above a gaggle of Madara’s clansmen, was Hashirama Senju. He was smiling brightly, waving Teuchi’s pistol around as he gestured something to the man standing nearest to him. He was wearing the same pale cotton jacket that he’d worn that day at the shooting range. He levelled the pistol towards the trees and fired with only the barest glance at the target. Teuchi slapped his forehead and laughed in awe – the shot had apparently struck true.

“Speak of the devil,” Hikaku said wryly, before jumping down from the still-moving wagon. “Yozora, you’re free to take your nephews back. Thank you for your help.”

Yozora grunted in affirmation and swung down out of the carriage bed. The wagon rocked as his nephews followed.

Madara pulled the horses to a stop outside of the stable and whistled sharply. Teuchi spun around, startled. “Boss!” he hollered. “I didn’t see you come up!”

“I know.” Madara tossed him the reins to the carriage as he jumped down. “Take care of this, would you?”

“Sure thing, boss. Mako! Get over here!”

The group surrounding Hashirama dispersed as Madara approached in loping strides. “Mr. Senju,” he said, tipping his head back to survey the man through his lashes. “To what do I owe the honor?”

Hashirama smiled at him, and _damn_ him, but Madara couldn’t help but smile back. “Mr. Uchiha,” Hashirama replied, cocking his head. “Do you have some time? It’s a nice day, I was wondering if you want to go for a walk.”

Madara could feel Hikaku’s steely glare on the back of his head and knew that, at this point, if he said no, he’d be waking up to the barrel of a shotgun. Not that Madara had any intention of saying no, regardless.

“No,” Madara said. He watched, amused, as Hashirama’s shoulders slumped. Then he added, “I have to put these numbers into the ledger. My ledger, not Hikaku’s. Then we can go.”

Hashirama’s mouth opened, then he shook his head. “You ass.”

“I have priorities.” Madara kicked open the door to the warehouse. He paused in the doorframe, looking back to see Hashirama standing in the same spot, smiling faintly. “Well? Are you coming, or not?”

“Oh! Of course!” Hashirama scrambled after him.

There was a dusty beam of sunlight shining through the open loft. The warehouse was mostly empty; the embers under the massive stills emitted a faint radiant heat. Hashirama followed Madara through the tangle of tables clustered in the center, and into the small box of his office.

Madara pulled the ledger of accounts off the shelf, knocking one of the knives to the floor in the process. It missed his foot by inches.

“Careful,” Hashirama said, stooping to pick it up.

Madara rolled his eyes and opened the ledger over the messy desk, pulling out a pen.

Hashirama leaned on one of the bookshelves, twirling the knife between his fingers. There was a melancholy smile in the corners of his mouth. “Remember when you stabbed me that one time?”

“Vividly,” Madara said, marking down a number on a grid.

“It feels like so long ago, already.”

Before Madara could stop him, Hashirama pressed the tip of his thumb to the blade of the knife. Red immediately began to well from the spot; Hashirama jerked, almost dropping the knife again.

“You idiot,” Madara said flatly, dropping the pen and grabbing his hands. “You think I’d keep _dull_ knives in my office? Let me see.” He pried the knife out of Hashirama’s hand and threw it carelessly onto the desk, then peered intently at the wound on Hashirama’s other hand. Hashirama’s breathing was quick and shallow – had he cut himself that badly?

“It’s not that bad,” Hashirama said tightly.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Madara said. There was too much blood to see clearly. Thoughtlessly, completely on instinct, Madara ran his tongue over the cut.

They both froze. Madara could feel his face flushing. He didn’t need to look up to know that Hashirama’s eyes had gone as wide as dinner plates. Hashirama’s hand was tense in his. The cut began to bleed again almost immediately.

Madara cleared his throat. “I’m – ah – it should heal fine,” he said roughly, licking his lips.

Hashirama didn’t respond, his eyes glued to the movement of Madara’s tongue.

“I’m… sorry,” Madara said. He was still blushing. God fucking damn it. He let go of Hashirama’s hand and turned back to the cabinet, searching for – he had to have some kind of bandages in here, right?

Madara felt a hand on his shoulder. Hashirama was touching his shoulder with his uninjured hand, the other held close to his chest. He stared down at it, mouth moving wordlessly for a second, before saying, “Madara, I… I really appreciate your friendship.”

Madara blinked. “Oh.” He looked down at Hashirama’s bloodied hand, then up to the curve of his lips. “Good.”

“Yeah. Good,” Hashirama repeated, still looking down. Then he stuck the thumb in his own mouth.

Madara felt lightheaded. “Okay,” he said. He could see the edge of Hashirama’s tongue, darkened with blood as he licked over the wound. Madara cleared his throat again, looking away. “If we’re going to go on a walk, we should go. Now. Right now.”

“Right,” Hashirama said, pulling back and finally looking up. “Yes, I agree. There’s only a few hours to sunset – don’t want to get lost.”

Neither of them were going to get fucking lost in these woods. Madara was going to find the nearest cliff and throw himself off of it. “Yeah,” he said. He maneuvered past Hashirama in the cramped space – which was feeling more cramped with every passing minute – and all but slammed open the office door.

Neither of them spoke as they left the warehouse. Hashirama’s hand had stopped bleeding by the time they got back outside – it hadn’t been that deep of a cut. Madara hadn’t needed to be worried. Madara certainly had _not_ needed to lick it _,_ _why did he lick it –_

The sunshine was warm on his face.

* * *

Hashirama waited by the warehouse door as Madara went to go exchange a few words with Hikaku before they left. He waited, and tried to quell the hysteria screaming in the back of his mind. He was very determinedly focusing on the brilliant yellow gold of the leaves surrounding the barn, and _not_ on how close he had come to ruining his friendship with Madara not five minutes ago.

The memory of Madara’s tongue pressing over his thumb, the wetness, the heat – it was probably going to haunt him until his dying day. But this was the bed Hashirama had made for himself, so now Hashirama was just going to have to _lie_ in it. He stilled the tremor in his hands and smiled at Madara as he started walking back in Hashirama’s direction.

“Ready?” Hashirama asked.

“Let’s go,” Madara said.

The dying leaves crunched underfoot as the two made their way towards the trees.

“Are you sure your hand is alright?” Madara asked suddenly as they passed under a broad oak tree.

“Quite sure!” Hashirama said, waving his injured hand. “I usually heal fairly quickly.”

“We should’ve put something over it before leaving,” Madara said absently, turning back to the thick undergrowth before them. “I probably had a bandage in there _somewhere_.”

“Quit fussing.” Hashirama teased.

“I’m not _fussing_ ,” Madara snarled, hair whipping as he turned to shoot Hashirama a dark look.

“You are,” Hashirama said, passing him. “You’re fussing like an old maid, even though it’s all your fault I was injured in the first place –”

“I didn’t _make_ you cut yourself!”

“Poor me,” Hashirama sighed, ducking under a low-hanging branch. “Woe, woe –”

“Oh, shut _up_ ,” Madara said, shoving him from behind.

Hashirama laughed, pausing long enough for Madara to draw up beside him. “Don’t go down that road,” he said.

Madara wrinkled his nose. “What road?”

“Brawling in this suit again! Mito said she’d lock me out of the house if I came back in another ripped shirt.”

Madara scoffed. “It’s not my fault none of your shirts fit right.”

“My shirts fit just fine!” Hashirama pouted.

“Sure, maybe when you were _fifteen_ ,” Madara said. He climbed over a fallen log and held down a hand to Hashirama. “Aren’t you supposed to be rich enough to afford new clothes?”

“You’re being so _mean_ ,” Hashirama said, taking his hand and letting himself be pulled onto the log. “Maybe I should take you to our tailor sometime! We can get you something that doesn’t look like a repurposed circus tent.”

“Oh, fuck you –”

“No, you’re right,” Hashirama said, balancing on the log. “Circus tents are far too colorful for your wardrobe. You’re wearing Mr. Small’s old frocks, you just cut them into suits.”

“Better than looking like a clown,” Madara retorted as he slid down onto the other side.

“I look like a _gentleman_ ,” Hashirama said, following him.

“You look like a fop.”

Hashirama laughed loudly at that, bending over and smacking his palm. “God, you’re an asshole.”

Madara waited for him to recover, one hand on his hip. “What does that make you, who keeps company with someone like me?”

“Oh, I’m probably an asshole, too,” Hashirama agreed breezily, straightening up. He tossed the long stripe of his hair back over his shoulder and pushed past Madara.

* * *

Madara swallowed whatever he was going to say and followed him, then choked down the next words that rose in his throat. The broad swathe of pale cotton that was Hashirama’s back cut a path through the underbrush. Madara watched him as they walked; he watched the way Hashirama would stop and stoop down into the brambles and briar to point out some dead twig to him, how he would ramble on about the properties of aspen bark or witch hazel or whatever plant they had come across – Madara watched the thing in front of him with dark eyes and decided that there were worse people to fall in love with than Hashirama Senju.

* * *

A few miles to the north – but not many – a horse with a thin, reedy rider and pale hair passed by an old sign labelled “River Road.” The narrow bridge shuddered under dozens of hooves.


	23. Chapter 23

_But he that shall endure unto the end, through Izanagi, the same shall be saved.– Matthew 24:13_

Night fell like a whisper, crawling through the branches and the leaves and down the cliff faces like water soaking through a cloth. Madara sat with Hashirama on top of a short, rocky bluff, one leg dangling over the edge. He cocked his arm, and snapped his wrist forward – a rock went sailing into the trees.

“Better,” Hashirama said from his spot leaning against the boulder. “But mine still went farther.”

“You’re full of shit,” Madara said. “I was _aiming_ for that one. The maple.” He pointed. “I have no idea what you were aiming for.”

“I was aiming for the maple, too!” Hashirama laughed.

“You overshot, then, dickhead.”

“No, I hit the _top_ branches –”

“Yeah, and then the rock _kept going_. That means you missed.” Madara picked up another rock and launched into the canopy. “See? It _hit_.”

“I can’t see anything,” Hashirama said dismissively. “It’s too dark.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re a sore loser with bad aim,” Madara said, grinning at him. 

Hashirama snorted, then looked over at him. Their eyes met. The light was fading fast – the moon was only half-full tonight, and it cast weak shadows over the planes of Hashirama’s face. Madara felt his heart thud in his chest. “We should probably go back towards the warehouse,” he said. “I’m sure you need to get home, too.”

“Yeah,” Hashirama said.

Neither of them made any motion to get up.

“Say, Madara…”

Madara waited, one arm dangling off of his bent leg. Hashirama’s fingers raked through the loose shale and grit on the rock face as he absently fished for another stone.

“Do you… think you’ll ever get married?”

Madara frowned. “What are you, my grandmother?”

Hashirama didn’t laugh. He was staring out over the treetops. “I’m just curious,” he said. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

Madara sucked in a deep breath and looked away, as well. The stars were beginning to poke through the black night sky. “No,” he said. “I’m not the marrying type.”

Hashirama snorted softly. “Beg to differ,” he said. “Any woman alive would be lucky to have you.”

It was Madara’s turn to laugh. “Really?” he said, smile sneaking into his mouth. “I run an illegal distillery and a family of lunatics and pig fuckers. I’m a real catch.”

“Pig fuckers?”

“Ask Hikaku about our old Uncle Tsukano some time. He loves telling that story.”

“I’ll do that,” Hashirama said, grinning softly. The smile slowly died from his face. “I never thought I would get married, either. I… well, I guess I wasn’t exactly what you’d call the ‘marrying type,’ either.”

“But you _did_ get married,” Madara pointed out. “That kind of makes you the marrying type by default, doesn’t it?”

“I thought it did,” Hashirama said, bending his legs and folding his arms over his knees. “But… well… things aren’t exactly picturesque in my household, either.”

Madara scoffed. “No shit.”

Hashirama rolled his eyes. “I’m sure it’s no big surprise to _you_. Did Mito tell you everything that’s happened?”

“She told me –” Madara cut himself off with a cough. “She told me enough, I suppose.”

“No, I mean, did she tell you we’re just pretending, at this point?”

Madara focused on the pale outline of Hashirama’s face. “What do you mean?”

“Well, we just…” Hashirama tightened his hands briefly into fists. “It wasn’t really working out. So instead of getting a divorce, we just…”

“Began pretending nothing was wrong?” Madara said quietly.

Hashirama laughed hollowly. “Well, it’s been working well enough so far.”

Madara leaned back against his own boulder. “I suppose it has. Do you love her?” The bluntness of the question seemingly caught them both off guard. Hashirama looked over at him, eyes wide. Madara shook his head. “You don’t have to answer that, if –”

“No,” Hashirama said, eyes still fixed on Madara.

Madara’s mouth closed. He looked down, briefly, then up again. “You don’t love her.”

“No.”

Madara nodded. “I see.”

A moment passed. Hashirama’s amber eyes pierced Madara through the moonlight. Then he shook his head and stood, brushing grit and dust off his pants. “We should head back.”

“You’re right,” Madara said, standing as well.

They lingered there for a second, framed in moonlight, the stars stretching above them in a glowing canopy – then Madara turned away and began to descend the steep path that led back into the forest. He could hear the clatter of rocks as Hashirama followed behind him.

* * *

It was 8:30 p.m.

Madara and Hashirama were making their way west, towards the Sharingan Breweries Warehouse.

To the north, a tall, reedy man with straw-blond hair pulled his horse alongside a dour-looking man in a tweed coat and said, “Not far, now.”

One mile to the south, Kuro Uchiha strode briskly down a packed dirt trail, a letter addressed to _H. Uchiha_ tucked into his coat pocket.

Two miles to the west, Nezumi cackled as Yozora split a log in half with his bare hands.

* * *

Somewhere in the Senju household, a cup split cleanly down the middle.

Mito jumped, staring at the dark puddle of coffee spreading under the saucer. “My word. What caused that?”

“Pressure?” Tobirama said, flipping a page in the newspaper. “It might rain tonight.”

“I hope not,” Mito said. “I’d hate for Hashirama to come home soaked again. Mrs. Cooper!”

* * *

Teuchi threw another handful of sand into the oven, just for good measure, then latched the door. He stood, cracking his neck. “Fire’s banked.”

“Good,” Hikaku said from on top of the ladder. “Make sure Saito’s taken care of the horses, then you can go home.”

“Got it,” Teuchi responded, brushing off his overalls as he moved towards the door.

* * *

It was 8:45 p.m.

Kuro unlatched the door to the Sharingan Breweries warehouse and called, “ _Hikaku!_ Are you in here?” He opened the door wide.

Hikaku rolled another barrel down the makeshift ramp into the bale of hay and hollered, “ _Yeah!”_

Kuro stepped through the door, pulling the letter out of his pocket. “I’ve got a –”

He never got to finish the sentence. A gunshot rang out like a crack of thunder and Kuro’s body hit the floor with a wet thump.

Hikaku didn’t wait to see it fall. Years of experience guided his hand as he pulled his pistol out of his belt and fired blindly from the loft. The bullet struck wood. Hikaku bolted, boots pounding across the rattling boards as the assailants returned fire – splinters erupted in the roof above Hikaku as he slid towards the open loft window.

 _“Saito! Teuchi!”_ he bellowed into the night. “ _Go get Nezumi!_ ”

The small field surrounding the barn was a storm of activity. Horses whinnied and reared with sharp, flashing hooves, the guns of their riders glinting in the weak light as a dozen muzzles took aim at the barn face.

Hikaku dived back into the barn as the window frame shattered under a hail of bullets. From the clamor outside, he heard someone shout, “Oh, no you don’t – _Go,_ don’t let him escape –” Then a series of booming shots. Hikaku summoned what little scraps of religion he held dear and sent a prayer to the Lord on High that his Sight might guide his cousins true –

– then he cocked his gun again and flung himself towards the edge of the loft.

* * *

Nezumi was sitting on Yozora’s front porch, under a swaying oil lamp, holding one knitting needle between her teeth and the other between her shoes as she tried to untangle the would-be shawl, when she heard the hoof beats drumming down the path. She dropped the needles and stood, nerves already dancing on end.

Saito clung to the saddle like a sailor caught in a storm. His shoulder was bloodied. There was a frenzied look in his eye. “I _t’s time!”_ He called out at her across the yard. “ _Go get the charges, it’s time – ”_

* * *

Hashirama heard the gunfire before Madara did. He stopped dead, staring towards the direction of the warehouse. “Do you hear that?”

Madara stopped to listen as well. Then, wordlessly, he broke into a dead sprint.

* * *

The cold wind was blowing fiercely outside. The glass rattled in the windowpanes.

“I hope he comes home soon,” Mito said, folding her arms and staring out into the night. “If it gets past 10 p.m., I’m not waiting up for him.”

* * *

Peter Morello dismounted his horse and swaggered over to the form crumpled on the warehouse floor. “I guess your boss ain’t home, then?”

Hikaku snarled wordlessly at him, eyes burning with hatred as he tried to staunch the bleeding in his stomach.

“No worries,” Peter said, cocking his Forehand and Wadsworth revolver and leveling it at the barrel of moonshine resting in the hay.

* * *

Madara’s Colt was in his hand as he skidded into the clearing. There was a thick cluster of men on horseback, rifle muzzles shining in the moonlight. They hadn’t noticed Madara’s approach – their attentions were fixed on the spectacle unfolding just inside the open barn doors.

Madara aimed the gun and fired off all six shots in the span of a ten seconds. Six bodies slumped over on panicked horses – Madara lunged forward, dodging flailing hooves, and seized a fallen rifle from the churning ground. It was a newer model – an 1891 Carcano, specifically, these rich fucking Italians – but all Madara needed to know was that it meant six more dead men. He slid the lever back, leaping to his feet in time to avoid the bullet meant for his head, and fired directly through the throat of the horse directly in front of him. The bullet ripped through meat and tendons, striking the horse’s rider squarely in the chest.

The cluster of attackers finally scattered, and dozens of guns took aim at Madara – but he was faster than they were, and he was gone in the next heartbeat.

Peter Morello mounted his horse, finished lighting the thin cigarette dangling from his lips, then tossed the match towards the growing puddle of moonshine soaking into the floorboards.

The shot rocketed out of the gun in Madara’s hands – but it was too late. The match sailed through the air, then into the fumes of the alcohol-rich corn liquor drenching the hay.

Madara saw the fire for only a single second – then he was ripped backwards by a hand fisted into the back of his coat.

“ _God_ , you weigh a ton,” Hashirama said, dragging Madara onto a horse. “Go, _go!_ ”

The Italians were already fleeing the scene. Hashirama’s horse powered away from the barn, ears pressed flat to its skull in raw terror as its hooves cut through dirt muddied with blood. Smoke was already beginning to pour out of the barn loft.

Madara righted himself on the saddle in front of Hashirama and roared, “ _Get us to the trees –”_

The Sharingan Breweries Warehouse exploded with a deafening _bang_. The two had just reached the tree line – the thick trunks sheltered them from the majority of the blast.

“Hikaku,” Madara said numbly as the horse thundered through the trees. Hashirama’s hands were tight on the reins, his head was low over Madara’s shoulder. Madara’s hands tightened on the gun. “Get me to Yozora’s,” he said into Hashirama’s ear over the wind. “Then leave – tell your household not to come outside tonight –”

“Tell me how to get there.”

The wind was harsh, but even so, the smoke from the warehouse still clouded over the already-dark night. The trees whipped past as the horse tore through the forest.

Yozora’s house wasn’t far, but by the time they got there the ramshackle homestead was already dark.

 _“Nezumi!”_ Madara bellowed, sliding off Hashirama’s horse and sprinting towards the front. “ _Nezumi, are you here?_ ”

There was no response. Madara didn’t wait to see if there would ever be – he turned towards a half-built structure and the single horse still stabled within and threw himself onto its bare back. The horse reared – Madara’s hands were on its throat, its mane, words spoken into its ear with as much delicacy as he could muster – and then he was cantering back into the open yard, barking at Hashirama, “Go _home,_ Hashirama!”

“They were riding north,” was all Hashirama said in response. He threw the rifle Madara had taken from the fallen mobster over to him as he wheeled his horse around. There was another gun lashed to the side of his saddle. Hashirama bent over and undid its straps as he said, “I’ll follow you. Go!”

Madara didn’t waste time arguing. He held the rifle in one arm and spurred the horse into the trees. He had five shots remaining with this gun, and he’d be damned if one of them wasn’t in Peter Morello’s back by the time the sun rose.

* * *

Nezumi rode like the Devil himself was snapping at her heels. She knew this land; she knew its lakes, its rivers, all the little corners where the underworld seeped through the cracks. Nezumi fired a round into the head of a tall, thin man with straw blond hair and screamed until his companions all had their guns trained on her –

– and then the hunt was on, because while Nezumi had a dozen angry men with shiny brass bullets at her back, she also had twenty five neat little bundles of dynamite ready and waiting at her fore –

Nezumi’s horse stampeded over a rattling bridge like something out of Revelations; its rider a pale scrape of white in the darkness of the night – and as she crossed over the black river, she whistled a long, piercing note.

New wicks blazed in the undergrowth, and over a hundred blasting caps finally struck true. The bridge erupted underneath a dozen screaming horses, and Nezumi howled in bloody victory into the night as she thundered to her next target.

* * *

Madara’s horse landed on the dirt road in a clatter of hooves, tearing holes into the packed earth as it rocketed towards the north. He could hear gunfire and shouts – Hashirama’s horse powered behind him like it was shot from an artillery gun.

Madara saw Saito first, bleeding from some wound in his shoulder. His horse was downed, eyes white and wild as it thrashed in the crushed underbrush. Peter Morello cocked his gun and Madara saw red.

Three shots were fired in the space of a single second. Two missed – one struck flesh with a meaty impact.

Saito scrambled to his feet and disappeared into the blackness between the trees. Peter Morello reeled on his horse, gun falling limply from what was left of his hand. The men surrounding him – five, six of them? Too many – levelled their guns and fired towards Madara. They all missed. Madara did not stop his horse’s advance – this horse, mouth frothing and thighs trembling under the sheen of sweat – this horse belonged to Yozora Uchiha, and this horse would ride into Hell itself if Madara so willed it.

The Italians scattered, with Peter Morello barking indistinct orders and steering his horse with a white-knuckled grip. Madara gave chase. Vicious energy sang in his limbs; blood, ash, and mud caked his arms.

He had four shots left. _Bang,_ roared the muzzle of his gun, and one of the horses in front of him veered away as its rider fell. _Bang_ , _bang_ echoed through the trees as the other men attempted to return fire – but they were not Madara Uchiha, and they had not been raised with Tajima for a father. One of the bullets ripped through Madara’s ear – he bit through the tip of his tongue at the sudden pain, a wordless roar breaking from his throat. He spat out the blood pooling in his mouth and powered onwards.

Hashirama’s gun flared brightly in the black night, and two more of Morello’s men saw the inside of their own skulls.

There was a distant boom, and sharp screams that echoed throughout the valley.

Hashirama reflexively grabbed the reins – only to immediately released them again and let another round loose into a dark-jacketed back before him. There was now only one man left between Madara and Peter Morello – Madara took aim once more – and then there were none.

Peter Morello glanced backwards with a face contorted by rage and terror. He spurred his horse to fly even faster – but there were miles of woodlands between their spot and the railroad, and his horse was already exhausted from its first trip south.

They reached a bridge. In the daylight, Hashirama might have recognized it. In the moonless, smoke-shrouded blackness they rode through, though, one could barely even see the seam where dirt met wood.

Peter Morello’s horse tripped. Madara, hot on his heels, couldn’t stop his own horse in time – there was a sharp _bang_ as a gun fired – and the two collided, horses and riders both sailing over the edge of the bridge into the churning water below.

* * *

The cold wind cut Hashirama like knives as he frantically pulled his horse to a stop, falling out of the saddle like he himself had been shot. He ripped off his jacket and kicked off his shoes, and in the next second was struck dumb by the ice-cold water of the river.

This river was deep and broad. The horses had untangled themselves, their hooves muddying the already blinding currents – Hashirama’s hands stretched out into the dark water, fingers straining for the feeling of cloth, of hair, of anything that would lead him to Madara –

Less than a yard away, lungs filling with water, Madara choked and thrashed blindly. He had Peter Morello by the throat. Their guns were useless here. He didn’t know which way was up or down; he didn’t know if he’d been shot or if the cold impact of the water was what was causing the pain in his ribs; he didn’t even know if Peter Morello was still alive. All Madara knew was that in one hand he held a knife, and in the other, the man responsible for the death of his kin.

The waters went red.

Hashirama’s grasping hand finally found purchase – a fistful of hair too long and tangled to belong to anyone other than Madara Uchiha. He sank his other hand into the cloud of fabric below and kicked towards the sky.

Hashirama broke the surface of the water with a strangled gasp, and heaved Madara along with him – Madara’s head lolled in his grasp, and Hashirama fought down the rising panic as he dragged them both onto the riverbank.

Madara wasn’t breathing. Madara wasn’t breathing and there was blood in his mouth. Hashirama tilted Madara’s head to the side and opened his lips – red dripped from behind his teeth – then Hashirama waited until the water was gone, and pushed Madara’s hair back, pinching his nose shut and fastening his lips over the other man’s. There was no romance in this, no heated flush in his cheeks or fluttering in his chest – there was water in Madara’s lungs, and Hashirama would rather stab himself with the knife held weakly in Madara’s grasp than sit there and watch him die.

He forced the air into Madara’s chest and desperately tried to remember what Tobirama had told him about heart compressions – there was a German doctor who’d successfully restarted someone’s heart with them in recent years – but Hashirama couldn’t recall the details, and he was running out of time.

 _If You have ever cared for me at all_ , Hashirama prayed, pressing down on Madara’s chest with wild desperation, _if You have ever loved me as one of Your children, please, please don’t let him die – I’ll abandon everything I have, I’ll forget these sinful fixations_ _– I’ll never look at him again if that would please You, I’ll sponsor a hundred churches, a thousand – just please,_ please _let him breathe –_

Madara’s entire body convulsed as he began to choke. Hashirama was struck by a relief so sharp that it almost made him weep – he turned Madara onto his side and pulled the hair out of his face as he began to vomit blood and water onto the rocky riverbank. His shoulders quaked under Hashirama’s hands, but beneath them Madara’s lungs slowly began to draw in breath after shuddering breath.

“Thank God,” Hashirama whispered, voice ragged and hoarse as he bent over to touch his forehead to Madara’s arm. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

The knife fell from Madara’s cold, wet fingers with a clatter as his hand fumbled over his back. He reached over his shoulder, twisting the trembling stretch of his chest as it expanded with each breath, and laced his fingers with Hashirama’s. His mouth moved, faintly, but there was no sound coming between his bloodied lips.

Hashirama knew what he was asking. He raised his head and looked back at the river. “Morello hasn’t resurfaced,” he said. “Judging by the blood on our clothes, he never will.”

Madara’s grip on his hand tightened. “Hashirama –” he said, his voice no more than a rough whisper. This proved too much for him, and he rolled back over, chest wracked with the force of his coughs. 

“Shut up,” Hashirama said, turning back to him and threading his fingers through Madara’s soaking wet hair. “Shut up, God, for once in your life, please, just _breathe_ – don’t waste your words on me –”

Another explosion rocked the forest in the distance.

Hashirama couldn’t bring himself to care. He bowed low over Madara’s shaking form and rested his head once more on his shoulder. His arm was still stretched over Madara’s side, his fingers still wound tightly with Madara’s own.

Slowly, achingly, Madara lifted the hand he held captive to his bloodied mouth and pressed his lips to it. “I’m sorry,” Madara said between low breaths. His voice was clearer, now, but it still quivered in his throat as he said, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Hashirama – I can’t –”

“I thought I told you to shut the fuck up,” Hashirama said without raising his head. If he raised his head, Madara would see the tears, and that would invite questions Hashirama could not answer –

“No,” Madara said, rolling back until his shoulder hit Hashirama’s folded knees, forcing Hashirama to lift his head. He turned his face away, all the same. “Hashirama,” Madara paused for a second and shuddered. “Hashirama, you shouldn’t have gone through the trouble. I’m just going to throw myself right back in.”

“The hell you are.”

“I can’t live like this,” Madara said, letting his head fall back against the rocks. “I can’t play pretend, Hashirama. And if I can’t – god, if playing pretend is what it takes to be at your side – I can’t do it, I’m so sorry. I just –”

Hashirama swallowed. “What?” he asked softly, staring down at the tangled line of Madara’s body where it met the river water. “What do you mean?”

Madara’s grip on his hand tightened momentarily as he brought it to his mouth again. Lips brushing Hashirama’s skin, he whispered. “If telling you means the end of this, so be it. I’ve never been a good liar. Hashirama, I love you. I love you so badly it makes me want to die. Every time I see you, I fall in love with you all over again. I know you probably wish you’d left me in that river now, but, _God_ –”

“Madara,” Hashirama said, finally turning back to him. “Madara –” He pulled his hand free, and something broke in the space behind Madara’s eyes – but Hashirama placed his hands on either side of his jaw, and kissed the corner of his mouth, then the crest of his cheek, then the space between his eyebrows. “Did I die?” Hashirama asked softly, threading fingers through the wet tangle of hair beneath them. “Is this the afterlife? Or are you some devil, sent here to mock me?”

“What do you mean?” Madara asked. His breathing was even shallower now – his eyes were wide and red-rimmed as they flicked between each of Hashirama’s own.

“God, you think I’m in any place to judge? Madara, Madara –” Hashirama kissed the tip of his nose, then his other cheek. “I have you lodged so deeply in my heart I don’t think it would _beat_ without your say-so. I love you. I love you. _I_ love _you_.” Hashirama laughed softly, a crackling, trembling thing.

“If my mouth didn’t taste like river water and vomit I would kiss you,” Madara said through the bewildered smile blossoming on his face, his eyes wide in amazement.

“If your mouth didn’t also taste like blood and dirt, I would let you,” Hashirama breathed, running his fingers from the crest of Madara’s brow down the hard lines of his throat. “God, kissing would be the least of what I’d let you do to me –”

There was a clatter of hooves from up on the bridge. “ _I FOUND THEM!_ ” came Nezumi’s earsplitting shriek. There was a sudden silence. “ _WERE YOU TWO TALKING ABOUT KISSING?”_


	24. Chapter 24

_I am troubled; I am bowed down greatly; I go mourning all the day long. - Psalm 38:6_

It was a little after 10 p.m.

Mito folded her magazine with a sigh. She’d said she wasn’t going to wait, and she intended to hold herself to that. If Hashirama wanted to spend the entire night in the woods, that was his business. She tossed the magazine onto the side table and made for the parlor entrance –

– and the front door of the estate burst inwards. A massive man with a thick jaw and coarse black hair – obviously an Uchiha, but one Mito had never seen before – politely nodded at her. Then Nezumi scurried in out of the black night beyond, soaked from head to toe in blood and muck.

She grinned brightly at Mito, sharp teeth gleaming in her filthy face. “Evenin’!” she chirped as the huge man ducked back outside.

Mito, one hand on her breast, eyes wide, could only gape.

“We need a blanket! And booze! And bandages! What’s your servant’s name? The mean one, who takes my things?”

“Mrs. Cooper,” Mito said automatically.

Nezumi reared back. “ _MRS. COOPER, WE NEED YOUR HELP, PLEASE!”_

“We have a bell,” Mito said numbly as the hulking man returned, carrying a body on his back. “My God, is he dead?”

“No,” the huge man said shortly.

“Then put him in here,” Mito said, operating mostly on autopilot. “Lay him on the couch. It’s already stained, don’t worry.”

The large man didn’t seem concerned in the slightest about the state of their upholstery as he gently laid the young man down on the paisley cushions.

“This way, Mr. Senju!” came Nezumi’s piercing voice.

“I know how to get to the parlor,” Hashirama said exasperatedly. “I _do_ live here.”

Nezumi scrambled into the parlor ahead of him and dragged Hashirama’s armchair over to the couch. “Put him here! Put him here!”

Mito’s eyes widened even further as Hashirama, completely drenched through and covered in blood, half-carried an equally filthy Madara Uchiha into the manor.

“Ow,” Madara said as Hashirama helped him into the overstuffed armchair. “God, the river hurt less than this.”

“I’m sure you’ve been shot before, stop whining,” Hashirama said, crouching by his knees.

“Stabbed, yes. Shot, no.” Madara’s eyes were screwed tight with pain. “Is Saito still alive?”

“Yes,” said the large man, looming in the corner.

The tell-tale _click, click_ of Mrs. Cooper’s shoes echoed down the hallway. Nezumi perked up. Mito gathered her skirts and hurried to the parlor entrance.

“Mrs. Cooper,” Mito said, leaning out of the doorway. “Please fetch us as many bandages and disinfectants as you can find. And towels.” She paused. “And an old bed sheet.”

Mrs. Cooper’s eyes slid from her, to the open front door behind her, to the tracks leading into the parlor, and said, “Right away, Mrs. Senju.”

Hashirama was still kneeling by Madara’s knees when Mito turned back to the room. He was resting a single hand on his thigh as he said, in a low voice, “I’m sorry about the warehouse.”

Madara choked out a single puff of humorless laughter, then winced, clutching his side. “Don’t be sorry about the warehouse,” he said quietly. “It can be rebuilt. Be sorry for Teuchi and Kuro. Be sorry for Hikaku.”

“They killed Hikaku?” Hashirama said, tensing.

“They killed _Kuro_?” Nezumi said in a very small voice.

“They got what was coming to them,” Madara said.

Nezumi numbly sat down in Tobirama’s chair. The mud on her dress squelched against the upholstery. Mito walked over to her and knelt down, taking her by the hand.

“Hikaku was right,” Nezumi said, her face blank. “He was smart to have us rig the bridges. He was a smart man, Mr. Madara.”

“He was,” Madara said. One of his hands came down to cover Hashirama’s, where it rested on his thigh. “Yozora. You’re sure you and Nezumi got the rest of them?”

“We bayonetted the survivors,” Nezumi said, eyes fixed on the dark green wallpaper. “The rest were killed by the explosions.”

The man in the corner grunted in affirmation.

Mrs. Cooper’s heels clacked along the hallway. Hashirama stood, his hand lingering in Madara’s for a moment before breaking away. “Let me help you with that –” he said as he rounded the corner.

“ _Mr. Senju, what on Earth –”_

“I will take _this_ , thank you – say, Mr. Yozora, could you help me move this table? Yes –”

The two men shuffled the furniture out of the way and stretched a large bed sheet over the rugs. Mito squeezed Nezumi’s hand once more, then went to help prepare the bandages.

* * *

Tobirama, when he finally came downstairs, half-dressed and already irritated, froze in the doorway for a long second, eyes tracking over the filthy makeshift hospital that had been constructed in his parlor. Then he briskly rolled up his shirtsleeves, kicked at Hashirama until he moved away from Saito’s bleeding shoulder, and began barking orders.

* * *

Saito would survive. He would never fully regain the use of his arm, but he would survive.

Yozora loomed in the corner, the cleanest and driest member of the group. He helped Tobirama wrangle Madara when time came to inspect the wound in his side.

Peter Morello’s shot had nicked Madara in the ribs. There was an inch-long strip of meat missing out of his external oblique muscle; the spot where Hashirama had pressed into his chest was a mottled black and blue. Tobirama hadn’t been able to do much for the ear where the bullet had grazed him, and Madara’s tongue had already begun to heal where he’d bitten it. By some grace of God, Madara would manage to avoid getting pneumonia after his dunk in the freezing river water.

Nezumi had made it through the night completely unscathed. None of the blood caking her dress was hers. She spent the entirety of Saito’s surgery staring blankly at the wall; she recovered some of her spirit just in time for Madara to go under the knife. She watched the corded muscle of Tobirama’s forearms as he cleaned the bloody stripe in Madara’s side, and smiled at Hashirama with a grin so sharp it could cut diamond.

Hashirama was bruised and battered, but otherwise intact. He spent every moment he could at Madara’s side, hand in bloody hand. When he met Mito’s eyes, his were hard with determined resignation.

Mito helped Tobirama clean and assess the group’s wounds; she helped him cut new bandages and tape them in place; she followed Mrs. Cooper as she ferried bucket after bucket of water into the destroyed parlor. When all the wounds were bandaged and cleaned, she bade Mrs. Cooper to set up the remaining guest rooms, and went to her closet to find a clean dress for Nezumi.

When Mito’s hand touched the smooth pine of her wardrobe, she finally broke down and cried. Incomprehension, terror, shock – she let herself reel with the force of it, clinging to the open wardrobe door like it would provide her some comfort in the face of the bloody scene that had unfolded downstairs.

Then Mito stood, wiped her face clean, pulled out the smallest dress she owned – the only thing that would possibly fit Nezumi – and went back downstairs.

* * *

Madara snored softly, head pillowed on a pile of white sheets in the spare bedroom of the Senju estate. The bandages over his ear wrapped around his head like a cocoon. Hashirama sat at his bedside, chin resting on his folded hands. He didn’t worry. He didn’t fret. Hashirama wasn’t thinking much of anything at all, at that point. He was content enough to watch the steady rise and fall of Madara’s bandaged abdomen.

It was after midnight. Yozora had dragged Nezumi out of the house by the back of her neck like a giant cat; Saito was sleeping in the room opposite them. Tobirama had given both him and Madara enough morphine to ensure they slept for at least the next eight hours.

When Hashirama had asked Tobirama why he’d had that much morphine already on hand, Tobirama had just replied, “Don’t ask questions you aren’t ready to hear the answer to, brother.”

There was a soft knock on the bedroom door. Hashirama raised his head from the sheets. “Yes?”

Mito stepped into the room. She had changed out of her stained evening dress, and was wearing a simple cotton nightgown. She walked over to the other chair on the opposite side of the room and sat in it wordlessly, folding her hands in her lap.

Hashirama straightened. “Hello,” he said quietly.

Mito blinked at him slowly. “Hello.”

Hashirama looked down at Madara’s sleeping form. “It’s been a… long night.”

“I would say so,” Mito said. She licked her lips and shifted in her chair. “Would it be… impertinent of me to ask?”

Hashirama didn’t look up from Madara’s chest as it rose and fell under the sheet. “You don’t have to ask, Mito.”

Mito cocked her head. “I just want to hear you say it.”

Hashirama snorted softly. “What, so the lawyers will have an even easier time of it?”

Mito’s eyebrows furrowed. “Lawyers?”

Hashirama finally looked up. “Lawyers. Divorce lawyers.”

Mito frowned. “Are we getting a divorce?”

“Are we?”

There was an awkward silence.

“Maybe we should start over,” Mito said.

“Might be a good idea. What were you going to ask?”

“Do you love him?”

Earlier, this question would have hit Hashirama like an earthquake. He would have blustered, and dodged, and tried to change the subject – but this time, Hashirama just smiled, a quick, secret thing that flashed over his face like a shooting star. “I do.”

Mito hummed. “I see.” She crossed her legs. “That’s probably for the best. You know he loves you, too, right?”

Hashirama laughed. “God, did _everyone_ know except me?”

Mito smiled. “You can be as dumb as a bag of hammers when it suits you, husband.” She paused. “Do you _want_ a divorce?”

“Do you?”

“Not particularly.”

“Me neither. This…” Hashirama gestured ineffectually at the space between himself and Madara. “This doesn’t bother you?”

“Hashirama,” Mito sighed. “I’m from _New Orleans_.”

Hashirama squinted. “What does _that_ mean?”

“It means I’ve seen worse, husband.” Mito stood from her chair and walked over to him, placing her hands on his shoulder and a gentle kiss on his cheek. “You should know,” she said as she walked towards the door, “that Tobirama was on the winning side of Nezumi’s bet.”

Hashirama twisted around to stare after her. “ _What_ bet?”


	25. Chapter 25

_And thou shalt offer peace offerings, and shalt eat there, and rejoice before the LORD thy God, and the Susano’o Eternal. - Deuteronomy 27:7_

Madara rocked back on his heels and surveyed the congregation with something reasonably close to a warm smile. The chill winds of autumn rattled the glass in the church windows; the crowds milling in and out of the church were waiting, staring up at the pulpit with rapt attention.

It wasn’t Christmas, so most of the congregation was feeling very out-of-place in the overcrowded sanctuary. Most of the congregation, that is, aside from the small group of people, all dressed in black, sitting attentively in the front row.

Madara caught Hashirama’s eye and his smile broadened. “Cousins,” he began, and the dull murmurs in the back of the church quieted. “This is a special occasion. We are here… to have a _funeral_.”

A couple of people cheered in the back of the sanctuary.

Tobirama narrowed his eyes.

“We are here to celebrate the lives of our fallen – Teuchi Uchiha –” More cheers, and applause. “– Kuro Uchiha –” Cheers again, punctuated by a piercing whistle from Nezumi. “– and, of course, my own cousin, beloved by all – Hikaku Uchiha!” The crowd roared. On the church lawn, casks were broken open; bottles popped; a fiddle began to shriek out a lively tune.

Tobirama sucked in a deep breath and stood, brushing non-existent dust off his suit as he said, “Well, that was respectful and somber while it lasted. Time to go. Hashirama?”

But Hashirama was already gone. Mito laughed at Tobirama’s confused expression, and dragged him towards the long buffet – only to be ambushed by Nezumi halfway. Tobirama’s suit would never be the same.

Yards away, behind the thick velvet curtains that hid the entrance to Zechariah Small’s quarters, Hashirama Senju pressed Madara up against the wall. His right hand tangled in Madara’s hair; his left wrapped around the back of his throat – Hashirama tasted pipe smoke and corn liquor, and laughed.

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to secondmeteor for beta'ing this; to phalsery, for suffering; and to spamsammich, with whom i was locked in a car for 72 hours and is responsible for this story bursting, fully formed, from my thigh like athena being born unto the world


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